


Karma

by AddisonAddek



Category: Grey's Anatomy, Room - Emma Donoghue, Room movie
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2020-04-12 06:34:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 60,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19126564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AddisonAddek/pseuds/AddisonAddek
Summary: What if Derek had never opened the door on that rainy night? The guilt of leaving his wife out in the cold and damp night never tapped his conscience. What if Addison was left to wander the streets of New York City? What would have happened to her then? What would her life become?An Addek FanFiction. Backstory. AU.Prior to Grey's Anatomy. Room, the book and movie, inspired.Addison/Derek#Addek





	1. 2,553 days. . .

**Chapter 1 - 2,553 days**

_2,553 days. . ._

_What goes around, comes around..._

It's a proverb that holds true to her heart. It's accurate. _Very much_ _so_. It's real. _Her_ _reality_. It's factual. _Again, it is what her life has become now._

Sadly, she's living proof of her own salacious actions. It's the downfall, the consequence of feeling _oh-so_ lonely that one melancholy night.

But, technically, it wasn't only that one night she had felt so lonely, it had been months and months too long. A repetition of going to bed alone with half a bottle of Cabernet in her system. A repetition of staying at the hospital longer than any of them should. A repetition of _how was your day_ , asking without an intent of listening or even caring - habitual. Routine, it was what's expected and that was that. And that night was her undoing, a lapse of judgement.

_Karma._

What else can she say other than karma's a real bitch.

It's a Hindu and Buddhist belief, stating that the sum of a person's actions determine the person's next incarnation in samsara, also called, the cycle of death and rebirth.

The concept had fascinated her. She had learned it on her trip to India with her parents a very long time ago, some two decades ago. It was one of the handful of trips her parents had decided to take her and her brother along with them.

Cause and effect.

_How can a life be determined by the direct result, whether be it good or bad, of a previous life?_

Good deeds results in happiness and prosperity for the next life. Bad deeds contributes sadness and future suffering.

What we experience now is the result of our own past's actions and our future is a function of our own choice and making.

If that's the case then she loathes previous-life-Addison for banishing her with eternal suffering. But then that means next-life-Addison will also be condemned to forever hell for she is not a good person. _She's a fucking_ _horrible person_. And this is her punishment, being stuck in this _box_ \- somewhat in a literal and figurative sense.

She wondered what previous-life-Addison had done. What had she done so bad for she to suffer her wrath? _Had she too slept with her husband's best friend?_

_Immense sorries to all future Addisons._

She's apologising in advance since she can only imagine the misery her future-self will have to endure.

_Tied to eternal suffering._

Addison laid awake on the squeaky and rusty single bed that barely suffices her Amazonian legs. It was just enough and _just enough_ wouldn't have ever been in her vocabulary. She don't think she've ever slept on a single mattress before. All the beds she've slept on had more than enough length for her long legs, more than enough room for two bodies, more than enough space to stretch. This child-like size bed didn't come with any of that comfort.

Double. Queen. King. _California king._ Now, that's a word in her vocabulary bank that she'd like to use more often.

But that was more than seven years ago.

Everyone - family, husband, friends, colleagues - must have forgotten her already.

Derek probably had a long time ago.

Her parents, she don't think her parents had even noticed.

Mark, she was just a fling, a one night stand to him.

Her friends and colleagues, well, they have their own lives to worry about.

Sighing, _what else can she do?_

It's not like she could just walk out of this - _whatever this is_ \- room. She had tried to escape years ago. Of course, she had. She wouldn't be called _Addison Montgomery-Shepherd_ if she hadn't.

She tried a handful of times until she realised there was no point and no possible way in getting past that fucking maniac. Also, _he_ had hit her so hard one day with what she believed was a ceramic toilet lid, the heaviest object in this _room_ , that she had spent days to hinge off the seat, which actually was used to her disadvantage because instead of _him_ being slammed by it, it was she who was. Resulting in her landing awkwardly onto her right wrist - her dominant hand. Her miracle hand. That was where she was able to heal.

_Every surgeon's worst nightmare._

Till this day, she've never ever tried escaping ever again.

_She gave up._

_Have you learned your lesson?_

She just nodded at _him_ , very slightly, cradling her broken wrist in her other hand, as she gasped for air. Leaving her to wonder whether _he_ had noticed her confirmation - the maniac craves on being acknowledged and if _he_ isn't, she gets punished. But _he_ must have because _he_ was already by the door, pinning in a code like _he_ always does.

She didn't need an x-ray to confirm that the intricate bones of her trapezium and carpals hadn't had set properly.

Till this day, her wrist aches. Sometimes so terribly. Till this day, her hand shakes. She knows she's never going to operate ever again.

It's been seven long years since she touched a ten blade.

She has taken an early retirement.

So much for hundreds of thousands spent on medical school. She didn't even get to finish her residency. She was just on her first year before all this happened.

Peering through the duvet, unbeknownst to the jolly little boy, who's now greeting every object a _very good morning_ , a daily routine of his, she watched as her son whisk from object to object around their condemned hell.

_A 11ftx11ft._

She thinks it's that size. She don't really know. _An estimation_. It's not like she has access to a measuring tape.

 _Oh_ , and she've also never lived in a room this size before.

Her last known address was in New York City in a brownstone she shared with her husband.

 _That_ was living. She had a life, though not a perfect and happy one and one she took for granted. At least she was free. _Addison had freedom_. Happiness is void without freedom. She had to learn that the hard way. _This_ , this isn't living. Living wasn't supposed to be waiting for the necessities and groceries she had to practically beg on her knees for before he would bring them for her - begging for more food, vitamins for her and her son. She's mere existing, surviving for no one else other than her boy. If he wasn't born, she would've gladly begged to be killed.

_Are they even in New York City?_

Maybe somewhere further north because it gets really cold in the winter season.

Maybe the suburbs or the counties.

 _Monroe._ _Albany._ _Nassau._ _Yonkers._ _Plattsburgh._

Watching intently, he now pushed a button to the CD player, a gadget she earned by doing something she really doesn't want to say - _maybe sometime in the future she'll talk about it but definitely not now_ \- and the soft mellow of Clair De Lune began playing.

Her fingers started floating with the keys. Like they would when she plays it on the piano.

He hummed through the Debussy's D-flat major eloquent movement and spun around the small room, she giggled.

He is her whole life. She never thought she'd be able to love someone as much as she loves her son. Words cannot describe the deep affection she feels. _Love?_ She don't think it should even be called love because love is overrated and the term has long been overused.

She _loves_ sushi. But not the raw fish ones.

She _loves_ being a doctor. Giving babies a second chance in life is a reason on it's own.

She _loves_ watching old movies. Those cheesy romantic ones.

She _loves_ her parents. Her brother, Archer, included.

She _loves_ her husband.

 _This_ , it's beyond love. She's empty without her son. He gave her purpose.

But he must have heard her chuckle, she had hastily closed her eyes, because he now had stopped on his toes and was tiptoeing towards her on the bed.

A jolt to her legs as she felt the flimsy mattress dip a little with his familiar weight, and he crawled towards her.

"Ma..." A little hand was now patting her cheek, "Are you wake, Ma?"

Slowly opening her hooded eyes to see a small round face with bright blue eyes, she pretended to have just been woken up and yawned and stretched her long limbs.

Her son was beaming at her. He's most likely happy now that she's awake.

"Happy birthday, my sweet baby." she said and pulled him closer to tickle him. He squealed, trashing his tiny arms next to her, pleading for her to stop, laughing as she brushed her fingers over his overly sensitive tummy.

Just like her, that's his tickle spot.

"Ma!" he laughed as she showered his face with kisses.

"Okay. Ma's going to stop. Okay. Happy Birthday baby!" she composed herself before placing a kiss to his forehead.

"I'm not baby, Ma. I'm five." he held out his little five fingers.

Addison brushed his smooth dark brown hair over his eyes and peered into her son's blue eyes that says he's a Montgomery, without a doubt. She can't believe it's been five years already.

_Whoa!_

She've done it all by herself.

"C'mere," she lay back down, pulled him to rest on top of her and she wrapped her arms around his small frame, "I'm know. Ma just can't believe her baby's five already."

 

He pouted a little, brows knitted together, seemingly thinking about something. "I was four last night but when I woken up in dark light, I'm changed to five. Like magic. Like from TV. _Poof_!" he made a sound and gestured with his hands the aftereffect. "And before that I was three, then two, then one, then zero..." Counting until he had no fingers left.

Addison watched him enthusiastically, watching him think is her favourite pastime.

 

She knows what he's thinking now.

 

"Where was I before zero?" his tone was innocently curious.

 

He's a very curious boy. Very talkative too.

 

"Well," she gathered herself, pulling him off her and allowed him to climb onto her lap, and he looked up at her with bright eyes.

Teaching him about things, reasoning with him about this and that and life in general have also been one of her favourites because he actually listens to her and believes every single word that comes out of her mouth like it's the gospel.

She had to mend her passive aggressiveness and pessimism by telling him some fairytales here and there, amending her stories to child-friendly viewers.

She only wants him happy.

"You were up in heaven."

"Was I one, two, three, four, five up in heaven?"

 

 

"No, sweetie. You don't age until you zoomed down-"

"Through skylight." he interrupted and pointed up at the ceiling where a skylight, their only window, was. "You were sad until I was in your tummy."

 

 

It's the story she told him last year, when he turned four.

"Yes, I was." Addison said, pressing her thin lips to the top of his head and inhaled his scent. She can still smell that fresh newborn scent on him.

 

 

_She's still sad._

 

"I cried and cried and cried until I didn't have any tears left." she said, "I just lay here and counted the days."

 

"How many days?"

 

_Hmmm?_

 

_How many days has she been locked in here?_

"2,553 days as of today."

 

 

She counted. _Every morning_. She remembers.

 

Still managing to keep track of her sanity. She's a smart woman and that's why she graduated on top of her class in medical school.

"Whoa! That's so many many days!" he beamed too excitedly.

"Yes, Christopher."

 

 

_Derek Christopher Shepherd_

"Then you got fat."

 

She grinned. She had always envisioned herself carrying Derek's child. She even had a picture in mind and still does - him resting one of his hands on the swell of her belly. Going through pregnancy, an exciting new beginning, together with him. But this was her fate. "I could feel you kicking."

 

"What was I kicking?"

"Me, silly."

He lifted his head from her chest, "No, Ma. You're being silly! It's not possible."

 

 

_Ahh! But it is_. She's very glad to explain to him her specialty, the science behind and how, in fact, it is possible. But he's not old enough yet to fully comprehend the human anatomy.

 

Maybe when he's six. Or seven. Or eight. Or nine... _they're never leaving this godforsaken place._

"It's true. From the inside." she said and gently rub at her tummy. The human body is a wondrous treasure and a very resilient one too. It can protect one from trauma and even heal without a trace.

"And when you were coming, I can feel you and I thought _Christopher's_ _coming_. And you zoomed down from heaven through skylight first thing in the morning on March the third."

He placed his ears to her tummy. "You're hungry, Ma." he whispered.

 

 

"It's ok, honey."

_Yes, she is._ She didn't get to eat very much yesterday. Nothing for dinner, in fact.

She's not all that hungry too often. Sometimes she'll just have cups of coffee to fill her up. She's perfectly fine. _Functional._

It saddens her that he knows, he's aware of their living situation, _poor_ , aware that they have certain times that they could eat, certain amount that they could eat, _ration_ , limited amount that they could eat. She'd give him her portion, he needs food to grow, for nourishment. He's so small for a five-year-old. A five year old shouldn't have to worry about these things.

What he doesn't know is that he's _rich_ and if they get out of this place, they'll have all the food in the world to eat, all the money to spend and all the space of a comfortable home. He'll be able to go to school and have a career of his choosing.

 

 

_He'll have a trust fund too._

She hadn't used hers yet, she'll give him hers when they leave this hole.

 

When she was five, she didn't have any of this to worry about. She had a nanny, Clementine, who kept her company and took her to the park, piano classes and ballet, and the housekeeper would cook all of their meals. She lived in a mansion in Connecticut with her dysfunctional family.

 

 

 

She didn't have anything to worry about.

 

 

 

"You cut the cord and I was all blue. But you're a baby doctor. You save babies and you save me. And here I am."

 

 

 

There was a bit of a complication as he zoomed down from heaven. He was a breech baby, and in danger of suffocation. His legs came through first instead of his head, like she had _hoped_. _She didn't know_. It wasn't like she had an ultrasound machine with her. She was relying solely on luck for the months up to her first contraction. Thirty four hours later, her water broke. _Luck had never been on her side._

 

 

 

She froze. She had cried and screamed even harder. She knows she won't be able to live if she were to lose him. She really wanted to meet him. _Excited_.

 

 

 

Her worst nightmare was playing right before her as she performed her on birth. _You're a surgeon, Addison. You're in an OR. Your patient is in labour. The baby's in distress_. There were no means for a c-section. She was alone. So, she did what she thinks everyone would have done if they were in her position, she _prayed_ which was odd because she had never believed in God. Gently and forcibly, she pulled him out of her.

 

 

 

_It was a miraculous day._

 

 

 

Shaking the both wonderful and horrific memory, she laced her hair through an elastic band. Her shoulder-length hair had stopped growing a long time ago. _Vitamin deficiencies._ Her body's in survival mode right now and apparently glowing skin and healthy hair aren't a priority.

 

 

 

"Have you brush your teeth, Christopher?"

 

 

 

He gave her a big nod.

 

 

 

"Did _he_ came by yesterday night, ma? Did you tell _him_ is my birthday today?"

 

 

 

_He_.

 

 

 

Christopher knows to never speak of _him_.

 

 

 

"C'mon, let's go wash our hands." she quickly changed the subject. She loves kids, they're very distractible. "We're making a birthday cake."

 

 

 

"For me?!"

 

 

 

He's never had a birthday cake before and she finally got herself to ask the maniac for a box of cake mix, some eggs and milk.

 

 

 

"Yes, it's all for you, baby."

 

 

 

And so he excitedly dragged a chair towards the sink and climbed on top of it, leaning over as she slathered their hands with antibacterial soap. Like she would when prepping for surgery.

 

 

 

She removed all jewellery. In this case, she had none because _he_ took her wedding band. So, she pretend to remove her wedding band from her finger and slip them into her pocket.

 

 

 

Then, she lathered their hands and arms with antibacterial soap. And let Christopher blow bubbles with his soapy hands.

 

 

 

Since she doesn't have a nail file, that step doesn't need to be performed.

 

 

 

_Two minutes each_. She started timing as she looked at the old clock and began scrubbing each side of each of their fingers, between their fingers, and the back and front of their hands, all for two minutes.

 

 

 

Then, their arms. Reminding Christopher to keep his hand higher than his arm at all times.

 

 

 

"You know why we should always wash our hands?" she asked, now at the last and final step, the rinse.

 

 

 

"There are germs everywhere. Germs can sick you."

 

 

 

"That's right. You're so smart." she praised his intelligence. "Germs can make you sick, but germs can also kill you. So always remember to wash your hands."

 

 

 

She loves that kids are like sponges, very absorbable, very malleable. She can't help but think, so gullible too. So full of wisdom and positivity, so what she's not used to. But his positivity is too what's keeping her from losing her mind.

 

 

 

"Ma, how did you get the stuffs to making the cake?"

 

 

 

She poured a bit of the milk into the batter, flexing her aching wrist before continuing to mix. She knows where he's getting at.

 

 

 

It's the same question but asked differently.

 

 

 

_He is her son. He's passive aggressive in his own way._

 

 

 

"Ma, did you tell _him_ is my birthday?" he asked louder this time, thinking she hadn't heard him.

 

 

 

_He is her son. He is very persistent._

 

 

 

And this is what she doesn't like about children, they can be so utterly pertinacious and tedious.

 

 

 

"Maaaaa..." he patted her cheek with a soft little hand, trying to get her attention while she continued to ignore him. Irritation creeping in.

 

 

 

"Ma, can you hear-"

 

 

 

"Stop, Christopher! Stop it! I told you you are not to talk about _him_!" she shouted, slamming the fork into the mix, causing a few to splash all over the table.

 

 

 

The second she ended her sentence, the second she turned around and look him in the eyes, her heart seized to exist. Melting into oblivion. Tears well up in his eyes and his lower lip turned upside down, trembling and she felt like she's the devil, Satan.

 

 

 

_She must be_. There's a reason why she's here.

 

 

 

"Christopher..." she breathed, attempting to reach for him, to console him, but he whimpered and climbed down the chair, stomping towards the bed with both arm around his eyes.

 

 

 

"No!" he shrieked, shooting her a wounded look before throwing himself onto the bed.

 

 

 

Running her fingers through her hair, she breathed a shaky breath and told herself that she has no permission to break alongside her son.

 

 

 

So, she straightened up herself, smoothing her hands over her rumpled clothes and closed the short distance between the so-called kitchen and the thin material that she's forced to call sheets.

 

 

 

Oh how she misses her designer kitchen in her brownstone. Though she barely even know how to cook and hardly ever does use that kitchen for it's conventional use, to her, that isn't the purpose of a kitchen. _Cooking_. Designing her kitchen has been more therapeutic than anything really. _For show_. Screaming wealth to any guests that they may have. She doesn't know why she does it, spending thousands of dollars in redesign that kitchen every other year. From modern to contemporary then back to modern again. _It's a never ending_ _cycle._ Those two accents, she has always adored and Derek, he knows to never say anything about it. But he had, once, in spite.

 

 

 

It's difficult to explain and definitely harder to grasp around the logic - _she_ _knows that_ \- but perhaps the black and white or steel forefronts, the eco-friendly Poggenpohl textured teak lava and terra melamine cabinetry, the BLANCO steel fixtures, Miele appliances and caesarstone surfaces were her zen.

 

 

 

Her kitchen was her happy place.

 

 

 

She's living in a box now. She has no kitchen. She has no bathroom, nor does she have any bedrooms and definitely no guest rooms. She's living in a room where all rooms are cramped into one. Never in a million years would she have thought that was possible. _And for Addison Montgomery?! Never!_

 

 

 

She's not in her happy place.

 

 

 

This is a shoebox.

 

 

 

_So, this is what her shoes felt like?_

 

 

 

Whenever he gets like this, she's immediately hit with her bare reality. She's reminded of where they actually are.

 

 

 

One might think being stuck here, all-day and every day, she wouldn't and couldn't have a problem of remembering where she is. But the thing is, whenever they're laughing and smiling and listening to classical music, she's able to forget. She's able to trick her brain into happiness.

 

 

 

With caution, she sat on the edge of the bed, smoothing out the wrinkly bedding - she doesn't even what to think about it's thread count and she have since she've had plenty of time to gawk at the sheets.

 

 

 

"Christopher..." she rested a hand on his shoulder but he brushed her fingers off.

 

 

 

"You're so mean, Ma." he cried into the sheets. "Why you always so mean!"

 

 

 

She smiled sadly, wiping her hands over her tearless face, stroking back his reddish-brown mane. He's in dire need of a trim, a long and overdue one. But _he_ doesn't trust her around scissors and she doesn't trust _him_ around her son.

 

 

 

It was a deal she made with the maniac. _He's_ not allowed to lay a finger on her son or even dare look at him - she hides him in the cupboard whenever he's around - and in return, _he_ could do whatever _he_ pleases with her.

 

 

 

She sighed loudly, "I'm sorry, Christopher. Ma's just tired."

 

 

 

"You're always tired then." he spat, looking up at her with his bloodshot eyes before planting his face back into the mattress.

 

 

 

_She is always tired._

 

 

 

She has no energy. She feels thrice her age.

 

 

 

But she fears one day her body will shut down and she'll die in her sleep. Christopher will be all alone. No one to fend for him. _An orphan_. She doesn't want to think what _he'll_ do to her boy if she were to be dead.

 

 

 

She's not so sure if she can go on like this any longer.

 

 

 

"Christopher..." she was wrenching him by the shoulders but he twisted harshly, quickly and her bad wrist caught with the friction of his pull. She gasped at the sudden pressure to her wrist, swallowing a curse.

 

"Christopher, I'm sorry. Okay. I'm sorry. Ma's just tired. I know it's no excuse but, you know, I don't like talking about _him_..."

 

Blinking rapidly, the way she does when she fights back tears.

 

"But I'm five now. I'm old. Why can't I see _him_? I know _he_ comes here from the outside every night."

She was afraid he'd caught up to that and even more terrified for him to see what _he_ was really doing to her. But Christopher was supposed to be sleeping.

 

 

 

_What does she really expect?_

 

He's a kid. He's curious. And he's smart like his mother.

She can't get mad at him. After all they live in a small space. He's bound to notice.

 

 

 

"Ma just wants to protect you, okay? Trust me, Christopher. You trust Ma right?" she asked as she rubbed her aching wrist.

 

She's going to need to ask for more painkillers.

 

He nodded.

"I'm sorry. Will you forgive your naughty Ma?"

 

 

 

Shaking his head - _no_ \- he wriggled around and leaned back against her. "No. You're not naughty, Ma. You're just protecting me." he whispered, stroking her cheek.

 

"That's right." she felt a strong rush of protectiveness, just the same one she had felt five years ago when she was in labour. She knew then that she had to keep him safe.

 

Gathering the small boy in her arms, she hummed a tune her nanny used to sing to her as a child, rocking him until their pounding hearts synced.

 

"I forgot to have some when I woke." he said softly and pressed a small palm to her breast.

 

"That's okay. You're five. You're old now."

"Silly Ma!" he lightly slapped her forehead, "I need your milk so I can have muscles bigger than Superman. Like from TV."

 

 

 

So she laid down on the single bed with her boy tucked close to her chest, praying to anyone upstairs, anyone who's willing to listen to her relentless pleas, to hear that she've understood, that she've learnt her lesson, that she'll be a good person for now and forever.

 

_She understands karma, so, now can she go home?_

 

**-:-**

She checked the old clock on the far right hand corner, _12:10_ , it read.

 

 

After nursing, Christopher hadn't thrown any more tantrums and she's glad that he has finally simmered down and was back to being his jolly self.

 

 

 

They successfully continued making the batter for his birthday cake without any interruptions and she put the tin into their low voltage Trusty Toaster Oven.

 

 

 

_Ma, can I lick the spoon?_

 

 

 

_No, sweetie. You'll get a stomach ache._

 

 

 

_Ma, why is Trusty Toaster Oven hot?_

 

 

 

_Electricity helps heat up the oven and that cooks the cake._

 

 

 

"What's electricity?" he asked now.

 

 

 

"Never mind, sweetie. It doesn't matter." she sighed, "For now, you're too young to understand."

 

 

 

It's a line she says whenever she doesn't know what to say or was just simply too tired to explain to him.

 

 

 

"Okay. Next week when I turn six, will you tell, then?"

 

 

 

She smiled and propped her elbows onto the table, taking a slice of apple from his plate.

 

 

 

"Next year." Addison corrected, "You mean...next...year..." she trailed off and closed her eyes.

 

 

 

_Next year?_

 

 

 

The thought saddens her. _Staying here for another year! She can't survive that! Not for another years!_ She wants to get out of here. She needs to go back home. She needs for them to get out of here because their shallow graves are what's next for them.

 

 

 

If they'll even survive for another year that is.

 

 

 

Some nights, she lie awake and stare up at the ceiling, plotting a way for their escape. But they all seemed so dangerous. It's not just her life now.

 

 

 

Some nights, she drifts on thoughts of Derek. _Has he forgotten about her? Has he found someone else? Has he forgiven her? Will he ever? Does he ever think about her? Does he still hate her or does he love her?_

 

 

 

Hoping it's the latter.

 

 

 

_Does he even know she's missing?_

 

 

 

That she's trapped in a shoebox with a child.

 

 

 

She wants to beg for his forgiveness. She's really good at begging now. Practically mastered the art.

 

 

 

He has to forgive her.

 

 

 

Their life is uncertain.

 

 

 

Their life is in the hands of a maniac.

 

 

 

Who knows maybe one day he'll snap and kill the both of them.

 

 

 

"Ma, why are you crying?"

 

 

 

"I'm not." she reassured, "Ma's just tired."

 

 

 

"Promise?" he held out his pinky, not quite convinced.

 

 

 

Locking her long pinky finger, in comparison to his, "Promise." she said with a smile then.

 

 

 

And since this Trusty Toaster Oven isn't one of her premium Miele ovens, it'll take about over an hour for the cake to bake. Sometimes even longer. But it doesn't really matter since while they wait and breathe in the heavenly scent of vanilla, she can busy herself with chores, like she always does. And Christopher, he's sitting by the table, drawing pictures. Like he always does.

 

 

 

Yesterday, he drew a beautiful picture of the two them holding hands and with a heart in between them. _She_ _loves it_. It melts her heart. But the only issue she had with his masterpiece was the fact that he had drawn a box around them, signifying where they are.

 

 

 

She's now her knees scrubbing the cold and concrete floor, because it's Tuesday and that's what she do on Tuesdays, and with her left hand because her right was throbbing. Looking back at her son, she saw him stick out his tongue, another sign that he's thinking.

 

 

 

"You are you thinking over there, sweetheart?"

 

 

 

He beamed up at her, picking up a slice of apple with his fingers.

 

 

 

"Use your fork. Germs." she reminded him.

 

 

 

"Oops, sorry, Ma. I don't wanna go back to heaven early."

 

 

 

"And I don't want you to."

 

 

 

She never even want to think about that.

 

 

 

"Ma, how old are you going to be on your birthday?"

 

 

 

She stopped what she was doing and for the first time in many years, she allowed herself to think about her birthday. _October 13_. Having not celebrated it in seven years, so that would make her..."Thirty six."

 

 

 

"Wow!" he exclaimed, "I only have ten hand fingers and ten foot fingers, I cannot count to thirty six."

 

 

 

She's turning thirty six this year.

 

 

 

_Thirty six?_

 

 

 

She's so old.

 

 

 

Remembering like it was yesterday that she was celebrating her twenty ninth birthday. It was the last birthday she had celebrated.

 

 

 

Derek had remembered and had made reservations but the catch was that he didn't told her that he was still on-call, so when he was paged, he left her there all by herself to cover the cheque. On the contrary, he reimbursed her once he got home the next day. And she couldn't even start an argument with him because she understood.

 

 

 

"Yes, sweetie. Ma's _ancient_." she said tiredly before turning the tap to run a bath.

 

 

 

"What's _ancient_?"

 

 

 

"Well, it means very old."

 

 

 

He laughed, "You _are_ very old, Ma."

 

 

 

She smiled. She knows he meant no harm but it still stung.

 

 

 

She is old, feeling way older than a thirty-six-year-old.

 

 

 

She had spent her thirty through thirty-fifth birthday in this fucking hellhole.

 

 

 

_He_ took everything from her.

 

 

 

"C'mon, sweetie, let's go take a nice bath then once we're done we can have some cake." she said, holding out her hand to her son.

 

 

 

Nodding, he tucked his little hand into hers comfortably and they made the short distance to the tub together before she undid his ponytail, as well as hers. They both stripped down bare and then slid into the warm tub.

 

 

 

She reminded him to scrub between his toes and behind his ears. And helped him shampoo his long hair, "Close your eyes, hun. You don't want soap in your eyes again, now do you?"

 

 

 

"No." he shook his head and shut his eyes very tightly.

 

 

 

Once they were done, she dropped the clothes that they previously wore into the tub, so that she could _hand wash_ them later.

 

 

 

It's not like she has a washing machine.

 

 

 

And she just has to say one thing, washing clothes by _hands_ is the worst chore there is.

 

 

 

It is a literal chore. _Hard labour._

 

 

 

She doesn't understand how people do it. The fabrics are rough against her skin and it hurts her hands. Now, her once smooth and soft hands are no longer smooth and soft. They've harden over the years.

 

 

 

"Ma," he interrupted her thoughts. They're now on the floor, legs crossed and watching TV, enjoying a slice of cake. _SpongeBob_ _SquarePants_. Their favourite.

 

 

 

When Christopher wasn't born yet, cartoons were her escape. She would lie on the cold ground - alone and terrified - and allow herself to immerse into the comedic and fictional world of 2D. Then, for a while before _he_ comes back, she'd remember how to laugh and smile.

 

 

 

"Can you tell me another story of your friend _Addison_?"

 

 

 

_Addison_

 

 

 

It's odd hearing her name coming out of her son's mouth. _It's odd hearing it, period._ It's been quite some time now.

 

 

 

She's not the same Addison she once was seven years ago, 2,553 days ago.

 

 

 

Looking back, they're two very different women.

 

 

 

To her son, Addison is merely a tale she tells him. _Addison is my friend_ , she had explained to him. He has no idea that Addison is really actually his mother.

 

 

 

She glanced down him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. "Sure. Remind me what story I told you?"

 

 

 

"You told me that she is a baby doctor too. Like you, Ma. And you two are best of friends. Like you and I. And you work together in hospital. And one day a fat lady come to hospital with very painful tummy ache and then baby zoomed from skylight."

 

 

 

She remembered that day, it was her first day as an intern.

 

 

 

"Ok. Would you like a happy or sad story?"

 

 

 

He stuck out his finger and pressed it to his temple, "Sad. Because you told a happy one last time."

 

 

 

"Ok..." _So, where does she start?_ "It was pouring so terribly that night..."

 

* * *

 

 

**_Seven Years Ago_ **

* * *

 

 

Addison's cries were lost beneath the thunder that rolled overhead, like a prelude to a great song, impetuous rumbling permeating the air every bit as much as the heavy rain. _She's sorry. She wasn't thinking. She was drinking. She's lonely_. With each and every crackling boom, her shoulders shook with terrified sobs.

 

 

 

He's angry.

 

 

 

_What's Derek going to do?_

 

 

 

He had just stood there, by the doorway of their bedroom, staring at them in utter discontent. His fist was clutching the knob so tightly that she really thought he was going to yank it out of it's screws and flung it at her.

 

 

 

Derek had literally just caught them - his wife and best friend - red handed, in the throes of passion.

 

 

 

Mark had one hand on her thigh, hiking her higher, spreading her further apart, just the way he liked and the other was tightly against the headboard.

 

 

 

The two people he trusted immensely in this whole entire world had just betrayed him with their insatious act.

 

 

 

The door had pitched forward with a loud bang as Mark, who was determined to screw her right through the mattress she shared with her husband, was on the verge of finishing.

 

 

 

_"Seriously, Addison!"_ was all Derek had said and in that quarter of a millisecond, the heat she was feeling turned to icicles.

 

 

 

Her blood ran cold.

 

 

 

It was all in her head. It must be all in her head. _It ought to be_. She hoped that the voice she was hearing, in this case - her husband's - was all in her head. _Seriously, Addison_. He's always saying that to her. It wasn't anything new. _Seriously, Addison_. But when her eyes had flung open and as her eyes met those directly above hers, _fear_ , a confirmation, it was then that she knew she was so wrong.

 

 

 

So very very wrong.

 

 

 

_Derek's home._

 

 

 

But he's never home. She just never know when he'll come home anymore.

 

 

 

He was supposed to be home because they had made plans to go out for dinner but he never showed up. He was supposed to be home and that's why she got herself all dressed up in red. He _was_ supposed to be home two and a half hours ago.

 

 

 

But he is not supposed to be home right now.

 

 

 

After that - _seriously, Addison_ \- it was as if everything heightened. A quarter of a millisecond later, everything sped up so quickly and in lightning speed that her brain didn't know how to comprehend her reality. She couldn't grasp what was happening or whether it was really really happening.

 

 

 

_Derek walked out_. She heard the front door slam shut. _Mark pulled out so_ _quickly_. She gasp in pain. _Sorry_ , _Addison_. And she, she just laid there, staring up at the ceiling, her heart pounding so fast, she thought she was about to have a heart attack.

 

 

 

_What have she done? What have she done? What have she done?_ _What have she done?_

 

 

 

_Seriously, Addison._

 

 

 

She slept with Mark!

 

 

 

Now, she's curled on the foot of the bed, dressed in one of Derek's old shirts with her knees tucked close to her chest. Resting her aching head against them, her cries just like the thunder above, were violent to her ears. But soon came a rolling sound that dissipates into the surrounding walls.

 

 

 

She wants to hide. She has nowhere to hide.

 

 

 

_Seriously, Addison._

 

 

 

Jumping at the sound of the front door slamming again, she quickly got up - _Derek's home_ \- frozen in fear as footsteps ascended the stairs.

 

 

 

He is stomping very purposefully. Each harsh step, his soles met the wooden flooring with burning rage.

 

 

 

"Derek."

 

 

 

He didn't even look at her, _didn't or_ _couldn't or wouldn't_ \- she doesn't know which but either way he was looking right past her, behind her as he marched for the closet.

 

 

 

"Derek! Derek! Derek, listen to me-" Addison chased after him, tears streaming down her face. Her words were cut midway as a clap of thunder shook the blackened sky which only seemed to pester his anger towards her.

 

 

 

A boom like that could only mean that the heavens were about to let down a deluge of misery - she knows it to be true. _God never liked her._

 

 

 

"Listen to me. Derek, you can't do this. Please...We have to talk about this."

 

 

 

"No, we don't."

 

 

 

He gave her the dirtiest of looks, very briefly, before turning his attention back to the closet. She hung her head in shame in return.

 

 

 

She didn't know Derek was capable in giving nasty looks.

 

 

 

_He's a gentle soul._

 

 

 

"Give me a chance to explain." she pleaded, attempting to rest a hand on his shoulder, but when she saw what he was grabbing for in the closet, she winced. "Wait, Derek-What are you doing with my clothes? Derek!"

 

 

 

But he was quick, very quick, too quick for her. Normally, she's like a cheetah. Her movements were always faster than his. _Maybe it's because of all the liquor she has had earlier_. But she can't really blame it all on hard liquor because she barely even finished her drink. In one swift motion, he had an armful of her clothes in hangers in his arm.

 

 

 

"Derek, don't!"

 

 

 

And just as quickly, in another swift motion, he was walking away from her. She reached out for him, successfully grabbing his shoulder but he shoved her hand away with a rough shrug.

 

 

 

Before she could even get herself to chase after him, he was already dropping all her clothes onto their bed and just like that, he yanked his favourite 800 thread count cotton fitted sheets from the mattress, harshly bunching her clothes along with the sheets.

 

 

 

"Derek, please don't do this!" she panicked.

 

 

 

She grabbed him.

 

 

 

"Don't you dare touch me with those hands, Addison! Don't you make me hit you!"

 

 

 

He's mad.

 

 

 

He wouldn't.

 

 

 

She knows he didn't mean it. He's just angry. He'd never. _Never_. She knows he'd never. _Right?_

 

 

 

This is all wrong.

 

 

 

She followed him down the hallway towards the stairwell, with her slippers pounding down the steps. "It was one time! One time. Please listen. It just happened, Derek!"

 

 

 

With the sheets and her clothes still heavy in his arms, he stopped on his tracks to glare at her. Rage and the tiniest linger of pain were in his eyes.

 

 

 

"I know that's what people say. I know that's what gets said - I don't know how it happened - I don't know what I was thinking. _He was here_."

 

 

 

And by the exhale he gave her and the low chuckle that escaped his tense lips, she knew there was something wrong with what she had just said.

 

 

 

This is all wrong.

 

 

 

She wasn't planning on sleeping with Mark. _Never_. She never even had a desire to. She don't think she've ever even thought about it a day in her life. _Never_. Like she said, _he was here_ , that's how this all started. And now, he's gone. He left her like her husband's about to. He had ran off, and was half dressed as he hit the door.

 

 

 

Mark was here, like he had been for the past few days when Derek hadn't. Mark was here, keeping her company when Derek wasn't. Mark was just here, making her laugh and smile because he knows she felt abandoned. She doesn't know how he knew that but he knew. He knew just how to make her feel better about herself, he knew the right words to say, he knew what to do, he knew how to get in her pants.

 

 

 

_I'm here, ok. I'm here for you, Red._

 

 

 

She just smiled shyly and looked down at her lap, tucking a few strands behind her ear. He must have sensed that something was bothering her.

 

 

 

How can he not? Her eyes were puffy and red. It was so utterly transparent.

 

 

 

She was crying.

 

 

 

She and Derek had had another one of their quarrels.

 

 

 

_You're beautiful and your husband's a mad man for not noticing that...Anymore._

 

 

 

Next thing she knew, he was next to her on the couch - no, he had been next to her on the couch, now he's inches away from her. Looking _into_ her, not just _at_ her. _Into her_. His gaze was hot against her skin.

 

 

 

_Mark..._ , was what she said so softly, pleadingly.

 

 

 

Maybe she was begging with him to stop whatever they both knew was about to happen. Maybe she was soliciting him to touch her, to kiss her, to _fuck_ her. She don't know. But she never should've looked into his eyes because it shadowed whatever illicit thing she was feeling inside. They were different, she noticed. _Darker._

 

 

 

He took her wrist, gently drawing circles with his thumb. _So smoothly_ _and softly_. She don't really know why but that - heated tenderness - went straight down south. And because he's Mark, he's skilled, he must know that that's what girls relishes and just like a statistic, she was relished.

 

 

 

She couldn't stop him even if she wanted to and she didn't.

 

 

 

_Derek won't be home tonight, he's never home anymore, Addison. So, what's one time?_

 

 

 

She convinced herself when he began stroking her inner thigh, watching as his thick fingers crawl higher and higher, agonising second after agonising second. She was already squirming underneath.

 

 

 

This is all wrong.

 

 

 

She yelled after him as he opened the front door of their brownstone, "You screwed my best friend and all you can say is _'He was just here?'_ " Derek shouted back and she watched in slow motion as he hurled all of her clothes out the front door. Immediately, soaking the delicate fabrics with the harsh rain.

 

 

 

She's sobbing harder now, not knowing what to do next, not knowing what to say to get through to him, to get him to listen to her cries. So, she stood at the bottom of the stairs, her shaky hands covering her tear stricken face.

 

 

 

He's quiet now. He's thinking.

 

 

 

"Get out."

 

 

 

The words made Addison shudder and she shook her head.

 

 

 

"No."

 

 

 

Taking a step towards her, she was quivering, shaking her head, mumbling _no, no, no_ and she gripped the banister tighter.

 

 

 

"Get out, Addison."

 

 

 

"No. No, I'm not going!" she shouted. Trying to sound a lot more adamant than how she's actually feeling. _Weak._

 

 

 

"Get out of _my_ house now!" Derek yelled, fully prepared to drag her out himself.

 

 

 

_Our house..._

 

 

 

"We have to talk about this. I'm holding my ground." she pleaded, her hands holding the banister like her life depended on it.

 

 

 

She crouched low on the step, he can't drag her out of their home. _He wouldn't, right?_ "I'm holding my ground, Derek. I'm holding my ground! We don't quit!" she screamed at him.

 

 

 

Gripping her wrists with intense force, "Get out." he repeated again and again as he pried each and every finger of hers off the banister.

 

 

 

"Ow! Derek! What are you doing?" she was pulling herself back, trying to hold onto something but he was obviously stronger and high with rage. So, she fought, struggling against his restraining hands as he led her to the front door.

 

 

 

"Derek, no, no!"

 

 

 

He was flinging the door open with one hand and she tried to peel off the hand that had a death grip on her wrist, but she was no match for him.

 

 

 

Just like that he slammed the door in her face without even looking at her and she was now on the other side of the door, in the pouring rain.

 

 

 

"Please. Derek." she sobbed, hastily banging the thick door with her fists. She can feel the freezing cold rain soaking through her clothes.

 

 

 

This _is_ all wrong.

 

 

 

Derek wouldn't leave her out here. _He wouldn't, right?_

 

 

 

But then again, she too thought wrong. Everything about tonight was all wrong. She never had an inkling, a day in her life, that she'd sleep with Mark Sloan.

 

 

 

She don't really know anything. She've been poisoning herself with false beliefs all this time, making herself feel better.

 

 

 

"Derek!" she screamed on top of her lungs. Not caring about their neighbours anymore. They live on the Upper East Side and on a normal and uneventful day, she would've cared. _A_ _lot_. One can't put a price on reputation.

 

 

 

Their reputation means everything to them.

 

 

 

They're doctors.

 

 

 

She's certain their neighbours can hear them - _her_. She's certain their neighbours can hear her sobbing for Derek to let her in.

 

 

 

"Please. Please. Please. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. You have to give me a chance. You have to give me a chance to show you how sorry I am. I'm sorry, Derek."

 

 

 

She was now slowly and weakly fisting the door, her body shivering, he still hadn't open the door. Or even peeked through the curtains.

 

 

 

She checked.

 

 

 

He doesn't care. _He doesn't care about her anymore_. She thought he would. She used to be everything and more to him.

 

 

 

_What happened to them?_

 

 

 

"Derek...please..." She was on the concrete stoop, on her knees, sobbing, her hands against the cold wooden door, her eyes staring without recognition at the blank wall ahead.

 

 

 

At ten past as she checked her Clé De Cartier watch that Derek had gifted her for her birthday, she realised that she've sitting idly for a little over thirty minutes.

 

 

 

"Derek..." she whispered. She don't think he've moved an inch as well. She couldn't hear anything on the other side.

 

 

 

No ruffling. No footsteps.

 

 

 

Closing her eyes in tears, she closed them tight. And she counted while she rocked there on her knees. She counted slow; counting, counting until the tears stopped trickling and her eyes could confront her reality.

 

 

 

_Eleven, oh-three_. The hands on the watch read.

 

 

 

A long, shuddering sigh, she is still here. _Cold_. Salty tears running down her cheeks.

 

 

 

It had stopped raining a while ago.

 

 

 

Running her fingers through her very wet red hair, swiping at her eyes with her palms then, she decided that she'd better head over to Savvy's, not Mark's because it'll make things worse, or she'll catch a cold.

 

 

 

She'd let her in. She knows she would.

 

 

 

So, she put on whatever bottoms she could find with the pile Derek had thrown - a pair of soaked black slacks - because it's better than walking thirty plus minutes half naked in New York City.

 

 

 

_Numb._

 

 

 

Her head was pounding but other than that intense pressure in her head, she feels nothing. Nothing at all, she's floating through the streets of New York.

 

 

 

Surrounded by darkness and because it's New York City and women shouldn't be walking alone and vulnerable like she is, she's avoiding all life, never taking her eyes off the filthy and wet New York City pavement.

 

 

 

_How did they end up this way?_

 

 

 

It was all her fault. Their end is all on her. _But it takes two to end a marriage._ She just escalated their ruins by sleeping with her husband's best friend.

 

 

 

A loud crash. A boom. She was startled.

 

 

 

A homeless man with a raggy old coat collapsed to the ground, along with his mountain stuffed shopping cart that landed on top of him.

 

 

 

"Sir!" she run towards the needy because that's what a good citizen would've done and not just turn 180 degrees. Besides she's a doctor. She helps people in need.

 

 

 

Crouching beside him, "Sir, are you ok?" she asked as she pushed the weighty cart off of the stranger.

 

 

 

He just moaned something incoherent, clutching his arm.

 

 

 

"Sir, you might have dislocated your shoulder or broke a bone, do you mind if I check your arm out?" she held him by the elbow and looked the hazel in a beanie in the eyes.

 

 

 

"It's ok. I'm a doctor."

This might be his only chance with a real doctor.

He was reluctant at first but complied not a second later.

As she moved his arm, slowly and gently manoeuvring through its hinges - up and down, left and right - she never saw his other hand that was now raised above her. She never saw the object in hand.

But she definitely felt it.

She never would have thought that today will be her last day of freedom.

* * *

 "So, where is Addison now?"

 

Christopher was looking at her with sparking ingenuous eyes and his question hit her close to home.

"Somewhere.”

She should've turned 180 degrees or not decided to leave that stoop.

_What's a little cold in comparison to no freedom, seven years in this shoebox?_

But she can never deny Christopher. He's the best thing that has ever happened to her.

She's nothing without him.

 

"Like you and I, Ma?"

"Exactly like you and I." she smiled at him.

 

Day in and day out, it's this room that they've been stuck in. He've never seen the vast and colourful world, the outside, the whole other world that's on the other side of this four concrete walls.

She is all he has ever known. And may ever know.

She is all he has. And he too is all she has now.

"But she didn't mean to tell a lie. She's sorry, right?"

Chewing her bottom lip, "She's so very sorry, honey." she said, willing her voice to not crack.

She's not going to cry.

"Is she lost now, then?"

She stopped, looking into eyes that were exactly like hers, thinking of the right answer to that question.

_Is Addison lost?_

_Is she lost?_

_Was anyone looking for her on the outside?_

 

It's been seven years.

She doubts they are.

If they have been, they must and should have lost hope a long time ago. They most certainly have given up already.

She's probably dead to them.

If they never had, then that means she might as well stay in here for eternity because, at least, she's in a place where she's wanted and needed.

 _She's loved_. She has all that she ever needs here. _Her son._

 

Because she cannot go back to a world where she's hated and unwanted.

_Has Derek forgiven her?_

Because she cannot face the fact that it's true, that nobody is looking for her.

"No. No, she's not."

 

_Has anyone been looking for her all these years?_


	2. 2,555 days. . .

**Chapter 2 - 2,555 days**

_2,555 days. . ._

_The measure of a man is what he does with power._

Addison Adrianne Forbes Montgomery-Shepherd found herself helpless in the face of a powerful man.

Power is a force that needs an object. To have power, a person has to have it over something, or someone.

 _He's_ not powerful by any means of wealth, status or occupation - _oh, no, absolutely not!_

 _He's_ tall but never stands tall. Not like a Montgomery.

 _He_ works in a factory. That's all she knows. She thinks a chocolate factory because _he_ would sometimes bring bags of perfectly edible, discarded candy bars.

She loves chocolate. Dark chocolate. It _was_ an everyday struggle. Emphasising on _was_. Now, she can't even stand the sight of chocolate.

 

 

_He's_ always complaining about how tight money is at the moment and that irritates her because she can't do anything but pretend to feel sorry for _him_. She can't do anything to get them out of this freaking shoebox.

 

 

_What can she do?_

 

 

Nothing.

 

 

All she ever does is listen and agree to whatever _he's_ ranting about.

 

 

_I'm so sorry to hear that._

 

 

_Yes, of course._

 

 

_Certainly. You are the best._

 

 

_Is there anything that I could do?_

 

 

_I understand._

 

 

_Thank you so much._

 

 

_Please, I'm so very sorry._

 

 

It's rehearsed. _All of it._ It's fake. _All of it._ It's what she has to say. _All of it._ In order to keep him from detonating on her, she has to keep his temper at bay because she's afraid _he'll_ snap and break their promise, taking Christopher away to God only knows where.

 

 

Though they made a deal, _he's_ never to be trusted. _He_ snatched her off the streets seven years ago. Tricking her into thinking that _he_ was hurt, that _he_ was a homeless man. She's literal proof of how much of a maniac _he_ really is. _His_ screws are loose. No sane person would ever do that.

 

 

_Power._

 

 

She can take all the beatings, the assaults, the ... _whatever_ \- like she has so many times before - but taking her baby away from her, she just can't handle that. _Not at all._

 

 

Christopher is her everything.

 

 

_Power_.

 

 

Those cheap tactics are definitely not the same approach the Montgomery men take.

 

 

The language they speak. _Upper class._

 

 

The suits they wear. _Bespoke tailored suits only by New York finest._

 

 

The shoes they wear. _Straight cap derby in dark brown Shell Cordovan leather with double leather soles_

 

 

The careers they pursue. _Doctors. Lawyers. Military._

 

 

The country clubs they go to. _Sebonack Club._

 

 

The sports they play. _Golf._

 

 

And of course, the occasional extravagant parties they throw. Parties that are as equally essential and of utmost eminence to the men - though they'll never admit to it - as it is for the Montgomery women. Parties that literally screams _"I'm so filthy rich that I let my wife throw these elaborate parties I know we don't need, when she likes and whenever she pleases because I can."_

 

 

_Power._

 

 

That is what power is to the Montgomeries. _Wealth. Occupation. Status. Reputation._

 

 

It's always about what people thinks of the Montgomeries. Everything is about reputation and their reputation is everything to them.

 

 

And _he's_ no Montgomery. _No!_

 

 

Montgomeries are phlegmatic, illustrious and are notorious for their generous donations.

 

 

It's also always about how much. _Crucial_. The price is always of key. The more zeros there are in a cheque, the better.

 

 

Money buys everything. Just like how money bought all her teachers to turn the other cheek when it came to her and her brother since the sixth grade. They literally got away with everything since then. It was more beneficial for Archer than for her, really. He got into trouble almost everyday but never received any hard punishments for his behaviour because of the the lump sum of generosity that helped completed the renovation of the school library, that built a much bigger swimming pool. _The Montgomery Aquatics Center._

 

 

That's how it is in an elite New York City private school.

 

 

That's what a Montgomery does. _Manipulate_.

 

 

But _he's_ , well, the fucking maniac is crass, arrogant and scary.

 

 

_His_ power stems from dominance and control.

 

 

Though _he_ almost double her in height, triple in weight, and though _he's_ able to squash her in just one flick of a hand, _his_ ability to control her - wrapping her around _his_ finger, making her beg on her knees - terrifies her.

 

 

She has never felt so low, so sad in her entire existence. _In complete submission_. So not in control of who she truly is. So out of character. So not a Montgomery.

 

 

She follows. That's what she does now.

 

 

_She's a follower._

 

 

That got her thinking about all the ways she had handled powerful men before and how she had learned to do it.

 

* * *

 

_**Twenty Seven Years Ago** _

 

* * *

 

She walked into the aromatic and pristine kitchen in the mansion she lives with her parents and elder brother after putting on her best dress - a vibrant yellow with white polka dots that brought out the crimson in her hair - for dinner because that's what Mother says; to be in your best dress for dinner otherwise you _will_ go to bed with an empty stomach.

 

 

Mother always emphasises on _will_ , she's very adamant on that particular rule. She will not tolerate anyone who do not obey her sets of law.

 

 

She found her mother vigorously whisking something in a large bowl, murmuring incoherent tangents as she does.

 

 

"Addison." her mother exhaled when she saw her walked in.

 

 

"What are you making?"

 

 

"Honey pecan pie. It's your father's favourite." she chimed, in control, whisking about. She doesn't look an ounce out of breath. That always fascinates her about her mother, she's always poised and on point.

 

 

_Sharp._

 

 

Not a strand out of place on her very stiff upswept hairdo.

 

 

Not a bead of sweat on her perfectly painted face.

 

 

"Can I help?" Addison asked as she took a seat on one of the chairs by the table.

 

 

"Pie's done, but I can teach you how to make whipped cream. Of course there's so many things I should probably teach you first." her mom said.

 

 

Excitedly, Addison beamed at the chance of broadening her horizons. Like the French say - _l'apprentissage est l'œil de l'esprit_ \- learning is the eye of the mind.

 

 

She loves it when her mother teaches her new things because it's very different from what she learns at school. It's not algebra, biology or grammar. It's practical and always applicable to every day situations. "Like what?"

 

 

"Like how to be a woman. That is the most important lesson I can pass down." her mother said intuitively, putting the bowl down in front of her on the table and passing her the whisk. "As the cream thickens, you whip it a little faster, ok?"

 

 

Nodding, "Don't I become a woman just by getting older?" she questioned.

 

 

"Oh, no, Addison. There's some things you're too young to understand, but I think you're old enough to learn about _the mask_." she wiped her hands over her apron before tucking a few strands of her daughter's red hair behind her ears.

 

 

Curiously, she furrowed her brows. _The mask?_ But she quickly relaxed her forehead when her mother gave her a stare that says - _if you want wrinkles, carry on._

 

 

"The mask?"

 

 

"It's what my mother called it. It's the face you wear when you don't want people to know what you're feeling. All well-brought-up women conceal their emotions. It's very useful, especially when dealing with men."

 

 

"Why?"

 

 

"Well," her mother gestured for her to continue the whisking and she did what she was told, "if a man knows what you're thinking, it gives him power over you. For example, if a man knows how much you love him, he'll take you for granted. He'll hurt you carelessly, cruelly, constantly."

 

 

She thought of what she saw yesterday, of Clementine - her nanny - and her father kissing. It wasn't just a peck on the lips. There were touching on very odd places. She don't really know what it means, all she knows for certain is what she had witnessed made her feel weird inside. Now, she's racking her mind on whether she ought to tell her mother. It sounded like she already knows.

 

 

But - _don't tell your mother_ \- that's what dad had said yesterday. _It's our secret. Ok, Addie?_

 

 

"Does daddy know that you love him?"

 

 

"Yes. I have told him repeatedly that I cannot live without him." she gritted, staring blankly past her. Her tone sounded odd like she's sad, like she's about to cry. But her mother's always in control of her emotions. She knows she'll never cry.

 

 

Addison doesn't quite understand what her mother was trying to explain to her. It doesn't make much sense. But maybe Mother has her reasons. "If you're so upset with him, why are you making his favourite pie?"

 

 

"Because after all of these years, I've forgotten how to wear my mask. So now I must do things to distract daddy. Like this pie. When I bring it out, he'll be so excited, he won't notice the devastation in my eyes."

 

 

"Devastation?"

 

 

"Mm-hmm. It's an emotion, Addison. The kind you might feel when your friend calls to say your husband's LeSabre was seen in the parking lot of a certain motel, next to his secretary's Bonneville."

 

 

Addison frowned, feeling upset for her mother. So all this time she knew and never mentioned or even gave an inkling that she knew. She knew and she pretended. She knew and she hid behind _the mask_ and the pies.

 

 

She continued with her whisking. Feeling tears prickling in her eyes, she stared down the almost sturdy cream.

 

 

When she has a husband in the future, she's not going to be like her mother if he ever cheats like her father does. She's never going to cheat because she understands how devastating it can be. She's not going to tolerate his extracurricular activities like her mother does with her father's.

 

 

"Practice your mask, Addison." her mother picked up her chin so that she's facing her.

 

 

Blinking back tears like her mother thought her how, she put on her best smile. The ones that showed off her braced teeth.

 

 

"Oh, no." Mother chuckled in distaste, "Honey, that's too much. All you need is the hint of a smile."

 

 

_The hint of a smile._

 

 

And so she followed, curling her lips ever so slightly. The right was a tad bit more curled than the left side of her lips and her blue eyes had the tiniest edge of shimmer.

 

 

"Perfect." Mother smiled, "When an expression like that, no one will ever know what you're really thinking."

 

 

"And I'll have power over men?"

 

 

Her mother laughed uneasily, "God, I hope so."

 

* * *

 

One would think that the appeal of power is to be able to control things, to change them to fit your vision of reality. But actually people who desire power are mostly looking to control one thing - themselves.

 

 

So she pegs the question here; what of _himself_ is _he_ trying to control?

 

 

_He's_ so obviously dissatisfied with _himself_ and using her to feel better about _himself_ was the answer.

 

 

_Why can't he just find a girlfriend or a wife to do that for him?_

 

 

Maybe that's why _, he's_ a pathetic loser.

 

 

_He's_ obviously living a double life.

 

 

One outside of these four walls, where _he_ probably has less control over the bearings of _his_ own life, where _he_ loathes _his_ job, where _he_ has nobody, where _he_ has no friends and family, where no one knows _him_ for who _he_ really is.

 

 

And one with her, in this room, where she knows _his_ true identity - an ugly monster - where she has experienced the pain _he's_ capable of inflicting, where she awakened the beast inside on countless occasions. A life where _he's_ playing some sort of role that strokes _his_ ego, pleasing _himself_ by demeaning her, crushing her spirit, her hope, her fate, stomping on her vulnerability with heavy boots, making her lose and forget who she really is.

 

 

She's chuckling now. _He's_ living the life she's living now but on the outside. _He_ has freedom whereas she doesn't. That's the difference between _him_ and her.

 

 

Autonomy quenches the desire for additional power. Generally, when people say they want power, what they really want is autonomy. And when they get that autonomy, they tend to stop wanting power. _So, yes._ By keeping her in here, _he_ wouldn't have to crave the power _he_ had so desperately desired before because _he_ has power over her. This macho crescendo that _he_ craves has already been fulfilled. _He's_ the man. The strongest. The alpha. The provider.

 

 

_A nutcase_.

 

 

He's mentally ill.

 

 

She rolled her eyes. _He_ definitely has mommy issues.

 

 

Maybe the reason why she couldn't understand _his_ desire for power at the beginning was because she had always had autonomy and therefore, never had any strong desire for it. _She was born into power._ And _he_ definitely wasn't and hence desired it - she's not a hundred percent certain but she's fairly confident with her theory.

 

 

So you can see, she has plenty of time to wander in her head.

 

 

Running her hands over her sweat slicked face, she has been lying in bed for the past hour or so since she has a bone churning migraine. She feels nauseous. She feels tired. She wants to sleep but she can't. Her head is aching too much to give her the peace she desperately needs.

 

 

She doesn't want to admit it but she suspects the symptoms she's experiencing is because she's coming off Percocet, something she've been taking for years now. It's a cycle of swallowing pills after pills to feel better.

 

 

Opioids withdrawals are the worst. It is a pain in the ass. It feels as though she's being hit by a train again and again and again. _Non-stop. In full speed._

 

 

_He_ didn't come by last night which meant that the groceries that they need and the Percocet that she's now literally all out of - she took her very last pill the other night - are not at her disposal.

 

 

_She's not addicted._ She doesn't even like drugs. _She's not an addict._ She just doesn't want to feel this way.

 

 

The trash bag that she had put by the door for _him_ to take out was still there, along with the list of groceries.

 

 

_Please pasta, lentils, tuna, cheese (if not too costly), and apples._

 

 

_Thank you._

 

 

Her once neat and ornamental penmanship has now become scruffy scribbles because her right hand aches and shakes so badly sometimes.

 

 

Massaging her wrist, she had just spent the entire morning scrubbing the floor. _Again_. It seems like all she ever does in this hellhole was scrub the damn floor. She had just done the tedious chore yesterday but since Christopher had gotten a little too excited, jumping up and down at the fact that they're having pancakes - which understandably could excite a five-year-old - he had accidentally nudged the bowl with his elbow that contained their batter, causing what's left to splash all over the floor.

 

 

"Christopher!" she propped a hand on her hip and glared fiercely at her son.

 

 

_Arghhh!_

 

 

She's so sick and tired of him being excited and happy all the time. It's just pancakes. They're just having breakfast. There's nothing exciting about waking up in the morning.

 

 

_Not anymore that is._

 

 

There's nothing exciting about not being able to close the door when using the bathroom. Or having to craft her own pads with old clothes for that time of the mouth since the maniac is a fucking cheapskate. Or having to wear these dull and nasty fabrics that she now calls clothes. Or not being able to open any windows because there literally aren't any. Or not enjoying the warm morning sun, the wind blowing through her hair, the cool droplets on her skin when it rains.

 

 

There's nothing exciting about this God awful place.

 

 

"Great!" she threw her hands in the air, still holding the spatula, "Just great! Thank you Christopher. You just gave our breakfast away to the _fu_ \- to the goddamn floor. It's like you think we get our food for free."

 

 

Well, being stuck in here is payment enough. So, the food they get is definitely not at all free. And she also has to hear him fulminate before getting what they need.

 

 

Her tone was condescending and was definitely registered by her son as he stared guiltily down at his feet, rubbing them as he dare not meet his mom's gaze.

 

 

She stomped a few steps towards the back to grab a few towels. Her fingers messed angrily over her hair, tying it up with an elastic hair band. With it pulled back, her cheeks were flushed with colour as were the very tips of her ears.

 

 

She didn't mean to shout at him. She's just cranky today. Everything just irks her. Literally everything and anything. A sneeze, a call of her name - _Ma_ \- a smile, a touch of her hair - everything could have very well brought her over the edge. She's not on her best behaviour today. It's one of those days. She doesn't know what's wrong with her.

 

 

She hates feeling this way.

 

 

_Helpless._

 

 

Sighing heavily, she got down on her knees, annoyed with her son, and began cleaning the mess he had created. She just wants to - so badly - continue on with her tangent, to dump all her frustrations on her sinless son.

 

 

She's so pent-up with frustration that screaming at Christopher seemed like the only reasonable option for her release. And she was so close to doing that when she realised she would be just as depleted as _him_. Maybe even worse because Christopher doesn't deserve to be yelled at.

 

 

Christopher is her baby.

 

 

"I just want to help, Ma." he said sadly, and she saw tears well up in his eyes when he knelt in front of her, "Ma, I'm sorry. I didn't-"

 

 

"It's ok, Christopher. Just - Hey. Don't. Please don't make it worse." she interceded when he reached for a towel to help her, "Would you just take a seat and wait for breakfast patiently."

 

 

He nodded. Shoulders slumped as he took a seat by the table. He propped his elbows on the table and rested his palms under his chin. "Sorry, Ma." he whispered.

 

 

She didn't look into his eyes for the rest of the morning since she knows the hurt she'll see was a result of her hurtful words.

 

 

She loves Christopher. Like she had said, he's the only reason for her existence. He's the best result from this baroque situation. She don't think she'll ever want to change what's happened to her because if she wasn't here, she wouldn't have him.

 

 

She might. _Who knows?_ She could. But she wants this Christopher. Only him.

 

 

It's bittersweet but it's the truth.

 

 

Lying in bed in exhaustion, she pinched the bridge of her nose. _How is this migraine only getting worse?_ Her mind drifted off to Marisol, her housekeeper at the brownstone.

 

 

_Had she paid her enough?_

 

 

_Is Derek still using her for her service?_

 

 

Oh, that sounded wrong.

 

 

_Did she notice her gone?_

 

 

_Did she even like her?_

 

 

She like to think that she does. She doesn't know. Anyway she seemed to. _Good morning, Mrs. Shepherd._ She'd greet her a very good morning with her brightest smile every morning. _How was your day at the hospital yesterday, Mrs. Shepherd?_ She would like to think that she was somewhat generous towards her, that she was well liked, that Marisol would have noticed that she wasn't home.

 

 

Now, she understood what it feels like to clean another person's house. It's not at all enjoyable. It's degrading. She's a doctor. She's not supposed to be scrubbing floors. She've never cleaned an inch of her ceramic tiled floor in the brownstone, not a day in her life. And now she's scrubbing cold cemented ground that's definitely infested with ... _something_ and crawling with cockroaches.

 

 

She deserves punishment, she knows she was selfish, she knows she was horrible, she was very stuck up, she's very well aware of all of her flaws, but she really don't think her castigation should be like this - the worse possible punishment.

 

 

_It was only that one time._

 

 

No matter how many scrubs, no matter how many times she cleaned this room with vinegar, it will never feel clean. Nothing feels clean anymore.

 

 

Not even her own body. It hadn't for years. She's dirty. She's been marked. And she can't ever scrub herself to purity.

 

 

Stretching her long limbs over the child size bed, she massaged her throbbing temples just the way Derek would. In deep circles. As she breathed through each relief, she can hear Christopher whispering about as if he was talking to someone.

 

 

_What can she say?_ He has one very riveting imagination. It's cute and heartwarming to watch his innocence. He would talk to things and about things like it has feelings, like it understands him, like it would actually give him a reply. Sometimes, much like today, she just wants to shake him and tell him that it has no feelings. They're objects and he's been using the wrong pronoun all this time. She wants to tell him that there's a beautiful big world out there. A so much better world than what they're living in. A world with eight billion other people. A world with colour. A world with plentiful opportunities.

 

 

All his life, this is his norm. He was born here, raised here. She wants him to experience life like a normal five-year-old. He's missing out on a lot of things already like making friends, playing with other kids just like his age, going to an actual school and not just sparing two to three hours out of their day for them to go to 'kindergarten'.

 

 

Rubbing her eyes, "Christopher, who - _holy shit!_ " she exclaimed, grabbing a pair of her slippers from under the bed when she saw who - _more like what_ \- he's been talking to.

 

 

With one swing, her slipper flung across the room, hitting the nearby wall as a result. Successfully scaring the rat, it scampered back to where it came from.

 

 

Somewhere behind the kitchen wall.

 

 

Christopher shrieked as he jumped backwards, accidentally stepping on a plate that just happened to be there.

 

 

She had frightened him.

 

 

He had frightened her.

 

 

_Rats._

 

 

She hates rats. _She hates it_. She can't stand it. Everyone who knows her knows her that. Rats are filthy and disgusting and hideous and disturbing. Only infesting in dirty environments. A proof of how much of a dump this hellhole is.

 

 

"Christopher! What the hell is wrong with you?" she shouted and got a brush and dustpan to sweep up the broken pieces of the plate.

 

 

"You made him gone!" he shouted back at her.

 

 

"Yea, well, you should thank me for getting rid of _it_."

 

 

Rats are _it_. Not _him_.

 

 

"What was this doing on the floor anyway? Now we're down to two big plates and one small, that's it, Christopher, I can't -" she growled, fisting through her hair.

 

 

Her migraine is getting worse. Her head feels like it's about to explode.

 

 

"Mouse was liking the crumbs. So, I let him have some." he protested, crossing his arms around his small chest.

 

 

She cringed at how he's talking about a rat.

 

 

It's a freaking rat. Not a mouse.

 

 

New York City is crawling with rats, especially at night. That's when they like to mingle. And she hates going home alone because she can't face those creatures all by herself. _Fear frozen_. She needs someone to help snap out of her irrationality.

 

 

It's a rational fear.

 

 

"Christopher!" she scolded and dragged the stove out from the wall, from where the rat had just ran into. And as expected, she came face-to-face with a little crack at the bottom of the wall.

 

 

"He was real. I saw him."

 

 

She rolled her eyes, getting a bundle of aluminium foil from the kitchen cabinet and started pushing balls into the cracks.

 

 

"Please don't." he whimpered.

 

 

"I'm sorry." she shook her head, "But where there's one there's ten."

 

 

"That's crazy math, Ma. You're dumb." he pouted.

 

 

She can't hear him. She's blocking out his angry wails and continued stuffing foil paper into the holes.

 

 

"Listen," she held him hard by the shoulders. He's still crying and she allowed his tears to cascade down his cheeks, exploding in ripples when they hit the floor. "Christopher, listen...okay. If we let him stay, we'd soon be overrun with his babies. Stealing our food, bringing in germs on their filthy paws."

 

 

"They could have my food! I'm not hungry! He's my friend! I don't have any friends!"

 

 

_Arghhhhh!_

 

 

"Christopher..." she said in clenched teeth, pinching the bridge of her nose.

 

 

He's not going to listen.

 

 

She must feel sorry for him but she's not. Sooner or later, he's going to get over it.

 

 

She can't deal with him right now.

 

 

Sighing loudly, she saw no point in arguing with a five-year-old. She's right and he's wrong. He's not having any of it and so is she. Stubbornness runs in the family. Montgomeries are not only manipulative, they're also stubborn.

 

 

So, she shoved the stove back to the wall and hurried to flop back onto the bed. Stuffing her pillow over her head, she growled into the mattress, and drowned out his cries until she finally dozed off.

 

 

It was almost six when she finally woke up. And like every dreadful time she wakes up, reality hits her hard. _Screaming at her_. She held onto the blanket tighter, gathering herself. _She's still here_. She's not in her brownstone.

 

 

_She wants to go home._

 

 

Groaning as she sat up, she ran her hands through her tousled hair, nauseous. _Very nauseous_. Her head still feels heavy. Maybe even heavier. She feels worse than before, to be honest.

 

 

She crawled out of bed, reached out for something sturdy when the room began to spin.

 

 

_...Inhale...exhale...inhale...exhale..._

 

 

She told herself when she suddenly had the urge to vomit.

 

 

When she was steady enough to walk, she head over to the sink to wash her face. The cool speckles made her feel slightly better and she waddled over to Christopher who was now engrossed in his favourite book - Jack and the Beanstalk.

 

 

It's his favourite because it reminds him of them. They are just like Jack and his mother. _Poor_. They love each other very much.

 

 

"Hey." she said softly, combing through his long locks. He looked up at her with his knitted brows and just as quickly went back to ignoring her.

 

 

"Can I have a kiss?" she smiled apologetically at him.

 

 

He shook his head.

 

 

She gave him a small smile and reached over to tuck the loose strands behind his ear, "Ok. Can I kiss you then?"

 

 

He shook his head again.

 

 

"Three kisses?"

 

 

That's for when she's sorry and she is so very sorry. She didn't mean to shout at him.

 

 

He shook his head, "No, five. I'm five now, remember?"

 

 

_How can she not?_

 

 

Her baby's a big boy now.

 

 

And so she smiled. She knows he couldn't stay mad at her for too long. "Ok, c'mere." she lifted him off the rocking chair with a huff and sat down, placing him on her lap. He giggled when she placed a kiss to his forehead, then both of his cheeks. "That tickles!" he said when she kissed his nose. And lastly, she kissed his lips.

 

 

"I love you, Christopher."

 

 

"Love you too, Ma."

 

 

They had instant noodles for dinner tonight and since the bananas are about to go past overripe, they had to eat as much as they could.

 

 

Bananas are Christopher's favourite. So he doesn't mind stuffing himself with the sweet fruit. Besides he likes it best when they're brown and squishy because they're much sweeter, like candy.

 

 

Again she wasn't doing much of the eating, it was all Christopher, since every time she tries swallowing, she just kept gagging the food back up.

 

 

_Two more hours till he's here._

 

 

"Ma, can I have cake?"

 

 

"Sure. Just a piece. But don't force yourself if you're already full. You've had a lot to eat today." she said but he's already grabbing a piece and skipping towards her by the time she finished her sentence.

 

 

Addison smiled, unable to stop staring at the little boy who's munching on the cake in his hands. Crumbs landed everywhere around them and she suddenly had the presage that the old her would never allow that in her brownstone.

 

 

"It's crunchy, Ma." he laughed, "Have some. You haven't eat any food all day, Ma."

 

 

He looked worriedly at her, a lump rose in her throat and she started to wonder if it's - if this sickness is something more than just withdrawals.

 

 

"I can't, sweetheart. Ma just don't feel good today."

 

 

"Is it wrist?" he stroke his fingers over the bump on the centre of her right wrist.

 

 

She nodded, though she doesn't really know for sure what's wrong with her.

 

 

"Why don't you take the pills?" he shrugged.

 

 

"I'm all out."

 

 

"Why don't you ask?"

 

 

"I did but _he_ didn't come by last night." she pointed at the trash bag by the door.

 

 

He placed a finger to his temple. She knows that look, he's thinking.

 

 

"Hey, it's nothing for you to worry about, okay?" she assured him. It melts her heart that he's so innocent, trying to think of ways to make her feel better. "C'mon, let's continue reading. You want me to read or do you want to read this time?"

 

 

"I'll read." he beamed, then picked up his last bite of cake and munched away quickly before speaking again.

 

 

_Don't talk with your mouth full._

 

 

She twirled her fingers around his silky hair, kissing the top of his head when he began reading.

 

 

And of course, it's Jack and the Beanstalk.

 

 

"Once upon a time, there was a boy named Jack who lived with his poor widowed mother. They had sold almost everything they owned to buy food. When their last-"

 

 

He stopped and scrunched up his forehead and she's taken aback to when her mother used to scold her for doing the same thing - _if you want wrinkles, carry on_ \- seemingly thinking about something. "Ma, why does it say Jack and his mother? Why can't it be Christopher and Ma?"

 

 

She laughed, "Oh, it sure can. It's just that the author chose to name this little boy 'Jack' like I chose to name my handsome little boy 'Christopher'."

 

 

And so he read it again, replacing _Jack and his mother_ with Christopher and Ma.

 

 

It's cute. It's touching. It's perfect.

 

 

_He's perfect._

 

 

It brought tears to her eyes.

 

 

Again, he stopped midway. She sniffled and wiped her hands across her face, afraid that she had concerned him by tearing up.

 

 

She rubbed his back, feeling the small holes of his sleep shirt. "What's wrong, Christopher?"

 

 

He's thinking again. She doesn't know why but she could just watch him make that face all day long.

 

 

_She has plenty of time in here._

 

 

They're never getting out of here.

 

 

"Let's ask for a new book for treat."

 

 

It's their weekly treat, which should just be called a treat for whenever _he's_ in a good mood because sometimes _he_ wouldn't bring what she asked for. _He'd_ pick a fight with her and of course, that entails in no treat at all.

 

 

She chewed her bottom lip and massaged her still aching temples, remembering the night she had asked him for a new book.

 

 

Of course she had asked for something educational.

 

 

"I did. A few weeks ago. I wanted you to have a new book for your birthday. But _he_ said to quite bugging _him_ , don't we have a whole shelf of them already."

 

 

Words straight out of his filthy mouth.

 

 

"A whole shelf? We could fit like a hundreds of books up there."

 

 

_Exactly._

 

 

She wants to go home. To their library at the brownstone. She wants to go home. To buy all the books in the world for Christopher.

 

 

_How many publications of medical journals had she missed already?_

 

 

_Thousands?_

 

 

"He thinks we should just watch TV. All day long."

 

 

Christopher straightened up at that. She knows he wouldn't mind.

 

 

"Then our brains will rot like his." she spat, contempt in her tone.

 

 

Since it's her turn to pick the channel tonight, she settled with the Wildlife Planet. She knows Christopher thinks it's boring - she would too at a five-year-old level - and would very much opt for something much more exciting, thrilling and lively but those channels poses questions, lots and lots of questions, and currently, she's in no state to answer them.

 

 

She's so exhausted that her head feels like it's about to explode.

 

 

They have about an hour before he comes by which means bed time for Christopher.

 

 

Staring at the humongous box of a television - of course, it's not a thin and sleek flatscreen - she's watching as a bale of olive ridley sea turtles come together on a beach - she couldn't quite catch the name of the beach - to lay their eggs in the sand.

 

 

_A biological mystery_ , as the marine biologists calls it. But it isn't much of a mystery to her. Maybe they're all coming together to nest their younglings in hiding because there's a bad turtle in the ocean. They're doing whatever they can to keep their babies safe. Just like her.

 

 

Such theory wouldn't have made any sense to her seven years ago. _It's far fetched._ Seven-years-ago-Addison would've laughed out loud at that. She wouldn't even dare to acknowledge the hypothesis.

 

 

She's a scientist. She would need concrete and extensive evidence, proving of statement and statistics to counter that theory.

 

 

But she's also a mother. She's a mother now. She understands that a mother's instinct is the most powerful weapon on earth.

 

 

Stronger than bones and always as accurate as a doctor's diagnosis.

 

* * *

 

_**Five Years Ago** _

 

* * *

 

She remembered the night following Christopher's birth. She had wrapped him up in a warm blanket, holding him as tight as ever. Not taking her eyes off of him for even a second. She doubted she had even blinked.

 

 

Right then and there, she vowed to never let him go, no matter the circumstance. _Never_. And that's one vow she truly intend to keep.

 

 

She've seen thousands and thousands of babies in her career and she have had, numerous times, expressed her content for their perfection.

 

 

_He's/she's perfection._

 

 

_He's/she's beautiful._

 

 

_He's/she's the cutest._

 

 

But Christopher is the most beautiful baby she've ever had the pleasure to lay eyes on. _He really is._

 

 

Brown locks. Twinkling blue eyes. Perfect ten fingers and toes.

 

 

_He was so gorgeous._

 

 

Adrenaline was the only fuel coursing through her veins and that itself kept her from feeling the aftereffects of childbirth.

 

 

"Please, you need to take us to the hospital! Please!" she begged the second _he_ walked through the metal door. She tried to latch onto _him_ but _he_ roughly yanked _his_ arm away. "Please! Please! He was breeched and he wasn't breathing for a well. There could be something wrong. He needs to be checked at a hospital. He may have developmental delays, cerebral palsy, autism, ADHD-"

 

 

"Now, now, hold it right there, missy, I don't like it when you start with that medical gibberish."

 

 

"Ok. I'm sorry. Just, I'm sorry, please..." she stammered.

 

 

"Is he breathing?"

 

 

"Yes, but-"

 

 

"But what? Why you so worked up about nothing? This how you doctors scam us for our money." _he_ took a step towards her on the bed, leaning over to reach for Christopher, "Let me have a look at the little one."

 

 

"Noooooo!" she screeched, turning around to hide her newborn.

 

 

_He_ grabbed her by the hair, twisting it around _his_ hand until _he_ had a tight hold, with _his_ other hand _he_ grabbed her chin squeezing has hard as _he_ could and she cried out, screaming at _him_ to let go of her. "Shut up! Shut the fuck up and stop crying! So help me God if _it_ starts screaming ... This is your speciality, right? You fix him."

 

 

_He_ released her neck and she haled as much oxygen as she could, almost choking in the process.

 

 

"This is my specialty but I don't have anything in this fucking dump."

 

 

He needs a lot of tests and vaccinations. An MRI to see whether there were any injuries to his brain.

 

 

"Tell you what," _he_ said amusingly, "since you just had a kid, I'm gonna let that one slide. Understood?"

 

 

She just looked at _him_ right in the eyes. Pent-up pain and rage poured from her in a torrent of sobs and tears until she felt as if she were coming apart.

 

 

_He's_ never going to let them go. But she can't give up now.

 

 

Snatching her by her hair again, _he_ yanked her towards _him_. "Understood?" The hold on her hair tightened as _he_ shouted.

 

 

"Yes." her voice quivered and she closed her eyes, grimacing at the pain. Everything and everywhere was aching. She's finally experiencing the pain that her patients so desperately demanded for more pain medication. But the most prominent pain was in her heart. For her son. She's scared for him. It's not only her now; he's trapped in here too.

 

 

"So, how I see it is you have two options. Option number one, I take him. You stay here. Option number two, the both of you stay and you pray he doesn't end up retarded."

 

 

"No. No. No." she placed Christopher gently on the bed and painfully pulled herself to her feet, following suit as _he_ headed for the door, "Please. Please. Please take us both. I won't say a word. I promise. You can say I don't speak English and that I'm your wife. And once we're done, we'll come back here. I won't say anything. Please, please, come back! I'm begging you..."

 

 

But the door had already slammed shut.

 

* * *

 

"Ma, that's weird. But the turtles mothers are gone already." he said when the sea turtle hatchlings liberated themselves from their nest. Orienting themselves to the brightest horizon, and dash toward the sea. "I wonder if they meet sometime in sea, the mother's and the babies, if they know each other or maybe they just swim by."

 

 

"No, they're never going to see each other again."

 

 

She wondered if the mother turtles cries every night. She knows she would. She would worry out of her mind until she drove herself to insanity. Maybe even then, she'll still worry.

 

 

_Keeping Christopher here with her was the right thing to do, right?_

 

 

_That's what a good mother would do, right?_

 

 

_Should she have taken up on his offer that night?_

 

 

She yawned, "I think it's enough fun for one night."

 

 

He nodded, agreeing with her. She can see that he's sleepy too. "You're right, Ma. My eyes are heavy like from Bob the Builder's bricks.

 

 

She giggled and he wrapped his little arms around her neck as she lifted him in her arms. He's heavy, she noticed. Or maybe she's just getting weaker and weaker by the day.

 

 

He tangled his fingers in her hair and hummed something closed to her ear, snuggling close before laying him in the cupboard.

 

 

Giving him a big kiss, she tucked him into the duvet and handed him his blanket - the same one she had wrapped him in when he was born - so he could feel safe.

 

 

"For a song, I want funny." he said softly. It's dark but she can still see the shine in his eyes.

 

 

"Litttle Boy Blue, come blow your horn-"

 

 

"The sheep's in the meadow, the cow's in the corn." he sang.

 

 

"Where is the boy that looks after the sheep?"

 

 

"He's under the haystack, fast asleep." he yawned.

 

 

She held him close one last, kneeling against the furniture and swept back a few sleek hairs on his forehead and she can't help but smile.

 

 

"Good night room." he whispered sleepily, "Good night stove. Good night Trusty Toaster Oven."

 

 

"Goodnight table." she grinned.

 

 

"Good night plant. Good night bed."

 

 

"Good night air." she added.

 

 

"Goodnight, Ma."

 

 

"Goodnight Chris-"

 

 

_Beep beep_

 

 

_He's_ here.

 

 

_He's_ early.

 

 

She jumped up, cursing when her head knocked against the roof of the cupboard.

 

 

"Ma... _he's_ here." his blues mirrored her terrified ones.

 

 

Quickly shutting the cupboard, "It's okay, baby. Just close your eyes. Don't make a sound." she whispered.

 

* * *

 

A gust of cold wind aviated into the room, _shivering_ , and she can feel her heart thumping hard in her chest. Her blood pressure must have skyrocketed ever since being imprisoned. She's fairly certain that her anxiety will be the best of her.

 

 

Though anxiety doesn't cause long-term hypertension, episodes of anxiety can cause dramatic, temporary spikes in blood pressure. And if it occurs frequently, such as every day, which it has, it can cause damage to blood vessels, heart and kidneys.

 

 

She's probably thinking too much about it, but that's the sole purpose of anxiety.

 

 

_Isn't it?_

 

 

Curious irises peered through the slats of the cupboard and she mouthed at Christopher to stay very quiet, that it's okay.

 

 

Her back faced the door, like it always should whenever _he_ comes - she remembered her lesson - and with a thump, indicating that the door has already been closed, she turned around on shaky feet.

 

 

It's quite early for _him_ to be here since _he_ usually arrives at around nine or past nine. It had barely touched eight thirty and now, _he's_ here. Christopher hadn't even fallen asleep yet.

 

 

She took a deep breath as she's always terrified whenever _he's_ around but that emotion would never register on her face because she's using what her mother had thought her years and years ago. _The mask._

 

 

She's always wearing the mask when _he's_ around.

 

 

"Hey." she said softly with a smile, "Let me help you with that." she hurried and took the load of groceries from _his_ arms and as she was about to place them on the kitchen counter, _he_ grabbed her by the arm. Not too tightly but tight enough for her to still herself because she knows the thick hand that's clutching her could very well snap hers in a flick of _his_ wrist.

 

 

She doesn't need any more broken bones.

 

 

"Where's my kiss?"

 

 

"Oh, I'm sorry." she mumbled, swallowing the bile that almost made it's presence.

 

 

Stepping towards _him_ nervously, she willed herself to not be too obvious with the quivering. _He_ wouldn't like that. _He_ will be angry and that's the last thing she wants _him_ to be. _Do as you're told._ And so she reluctantly pressed her lips against _his_ , counting _1, 2, 3_ in her head before parting.

 

 

"Now, that's more like it." _he_ grinned and she smiled. She hates smiling. She hardly ever smiles now because smiling are for people who are happy and she's not; she's not one of those people.

 

 

Her chest was rising and falling and it's not the good kind of rise and fall.

 

 

_Terrified, she wants to cry._

 

 

Quick on her heels, before _he_ could have the chance to try anything else on her, she strode to the kitchen to put the bags down. She peeked in, relieved when the small orange bottle gleamed at her. Good, that means she doesn't need to start an argument with _him_ tonight.

 

 

She can finally catch a break and hopefully sleep peacefully.

 

 

"So, how was your day?" she asked, slowly putting the groceries away as she does. Slowly, taking her time because she doesn't want to go to bed just yet.

 

 

She doesn't want to sleep with _him_.

 

 

_Not ever._ Though she knows she has to. _Not yet._

 

 

But the sooner the ... _you know, whatever you call it ..._ is over, the better because the sooner _he'll_ be out of here.

 

 

But the longer she put that chore off, the better, also, because sometimes - just sometimes, when God's on her side - _he'd_ be too tired and _he'd_ doze off the second _he_ lay down next to her. And that's more than okay for her. And that's a chance she's willingly to take.

 

 

"You know I'd like to come home to a clean place once in a while."

 

 

Frowning, she turned right around. _He_ was sitting on the edge of the tub. _His_ scowling, piercing gaze was burning a hole through the thin material of her sleep shirt. She doesn't understand what _he's_ talking about. Everything has already been shelved, placed, washed, scrubbed, brushed and dusted. This place is not a mess. _Definitely not._ It's clean. _As clean as this dump can be._

 

 

But she knows what _he's_ doing; _he's_ undermining her, trying to demean what's left of her dignity.

 

 

"I'm sorry. I promise I will do a better job tomorrow." she whispered, trying to keep her voice from trembling.

 

 

"It's no crying matter. I understand you were raised like a princess in that castle you lived in with mommy and daddy," _he_ said with contempt, "And now, look how you doin'. For a princess, I'd say good job. Could be better but...hey, I just realised, you're the opposite of Cinderella. She scrubbed floors before becoming a princess. Yes, the floors needs more scrubbing, honey." _he_ chuckled.

 

 

She nodded, facing away when tears began to fill her eyes.

 

 

_Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry, Addison._

 

 

Her hands were already aching so badly from today's scrubbing and since tomorrow's Friday that means it's laundry day, she don't think her wrist can take any more of the abysmal pressure.

 

 

"Looks tasty." _he_ gestured to the last few pieces of Christopher's cake.

 

 

_He_ dragged a plastic chair towards the dinning table, flopped down and waited for her.

 

 

_For what?_

 

 

To serve him, of course.

 

 

"Oh, it's just the last of the birthday cake."

 

 

"Should have reminded me. I could have brought him something. What's he now, six?" he raised a brow.

 

 

She didn't answer _him_.

 

 

Pursing her lips in a thin line, she paused, she doesn't like talking about Christopher to _him_. She avoids bringing her son up at all cost. Contemplating her options - to correct _him_ or not to correct _him_ \- she saw no point in _him_ knowing Christopher's age since it wasn't like _he_ genuinely cared. But that dilemma wasn't a dilemma for too long when a whisper killed their silence.

 

 

"Five." A soft voice said.

 

 

"Christopher..." she hissed.

 

 

_He_ laughed. "So _it_ speaks."

 

 

_It?_

 

 

She shuddered at the pronoun. Truly offended that _he_ just called her son _it_.

 

 

She wants to shout at _him_. _Should she?_

 

 

Her eyes darted around the room in a panic when _he_ got down to _his_ knees in front of the cupboard. Moulding her sore back against the cool wall, she gripped the end of the table hard. Her wrist were already screaming at her but she welcomed the pain.

 

 

"Hey, buddy. Want to come out of there and try on your new jeans?"

 

 

The moment she opened her mouth, wanting immensely to stop _him_ from reaching any further, no words could voice out. Her chest cavity felt weighty, she's having trouble breathing. Sweat began to gather in folds and she can taste a faint tinge of copper on her tongue.

 

 

She tried again. Half glad when actual words voiced out but this time it came out in a desperate plea. "He's nearly asleep. Ignore him."

 

 

_Ignore him, please. Please!_

 

 

Holding her breath, she waited for either of them to not react, for _him_ to not yank the cupboard doors open - breaking _his_ part of their deal, for Christopher to remember what she had told him - _never come out of there, I'll come and get you_ \- but he's a child, kids are stubborn.

 

 

"Ok. Ok." _he_ said, standing again, "Can I have a slice then?"

 

 

She was rubbing her wrist, flexing it around a bit before she spoke. "It's getting stale. But if you really want-"

 

 

"No, forget it, you're the boss." _he_ drawled.

 

 

_Sarcasm._

 

 

She's not the boss.

 

 

_His_ sarcasm scares her.

 

 

She didn't say anything but stare into her palms. She's too terrified to move even.

 

 

_He_ could snapped at any second.

 

 

"I'm just the delivery boy, right. I take out your trash, trek around the kids aisles, up the ladder to de-ice your skylight. At your service, my princess." _he_ put one hand on _his_ belly and the other on _his_ back, bowing at her.

 

 

It's not her fault. _It's his._ _He's_ keeping her here against her will. She wouldn't need to ask for _his_ help if she wasn't locked up. She could do her own shopping. She could take out her own trash. She could de-ice that damn skylight all by herself. But then again, she's not stupid enough to come back in here if _he_ ever lets her out.

 

 

_She wants to go home._

 

 

Her lips are trembling now. So she blinked back tears like she always does, like her mother had thought her. She's not going to cry. _Addison doesn't cry._ She's tired of crying. It's all wasted hydration because she's never going to leave this place.

 

 

"Thank you. Thanks so much for that, it's much brighter now."

 

 

"There. Didn't hurt, did it?"

 

 

"I'm so sorry. Thank you very much."

 

 

"Like pulling teeth sometimes." _he_ spat.

 

 

"And thank you for the groceries and the jeans."

 

 

"You're welcome."

 

 

"Here," she took a plate from the cabinet with a fork in hand, "I'll get you a slice, maybe the middle's not too bad." she handed _him_ the plate and smiled.

 

 

She didn't forget to smile.

 

 

_Who knew Bizzy's life lessons could actually come in handy?_

 

 

She never really had to use it with Derek because just like her mother she had forgotten how to wear her mask.

 

 

"Yup, pretty stale." _he_ said with a mouthful.

 

 

_Told you! You fucking moron!_

 

 

"Oh, you could try another slice, maybe-"

 

 

"It doesn't matter. I'm sure it's all shit."

 

 

That's what she've been saying all this time.

 

 

She internally rolled her eyes - internally because she doesn't want to be caught insulting _him_ and risk getting whipped - and threw the rest of the cake into the bin.

 

 

Watching TV - Jimmy Fallon's on tonight - she's trying with all her might to not close her weighted lids. It's difficult to keep them open when they weigh a tonne.

 

 

She walked the short distance to the refrigerator, grabbing a glass as she does and poured herself a little orange juice before heading back to the small couch.

 

 

_God, how she wished she could pour herself something much much stronger._

 

 

_Crystal clear_ , that's her go to distilled of drink.

 

 

_Gin. Vodka. Rum_. Maybe even tequila. She can't stand the distillate but right now, in this predicament, she couldn't care less. She'll drink anything.

 

 

_He's_ outside for now, on the phone with whoever, whatever, she really doesn't care. _Not at all_. Since no calls can be received from the inside because _he_ had installed some kind of signal blocking device that prevents phones from receiving signals from base stations, _he_ usually takes _his_ calls outside. And she couldn't be anymore grateful for the stunt she pulled years ago - she was so close to dialling Derek's number when _he_ woke up - even though the consequence resulted in her being starved for four long days because the longer _he's_ out, the better. She's happy since _he's_ not here to constantly patronise her.

 

 

_Beep. Beep._

 

 

The door opened and she sank further into the flimsy couch, hugging her knees tighter.

 

 

It's quiet.

 

 

Christopher's asleep. She had checked when _he_ was out.

 

 

They're both quiet.

 

 

She's not looking for any trouble which meant to continue being engrossed with whatever she was watching. _Pretending to at the very least._ She switched channels because Jimmy Fallon's too happy for her. He's happy. The celebrity guest - she thinks it Sarah Paulson - is happy. And she, she's not happy.

 

 

_She's jealous._

 

 

Everyone's happy but her.

 

 

So, she let herself to evaluate about what her life would have been if she had just stayed on that stoop, if she had made better choices.

 

 

She shouldn't have slept with Mark, she knows that. That doesn't need any more evaluation.

 

 

_Would Derek have eventually open the door?_

 

 

He had to. He had work the next morning.

 

 

_Would Derek have forgiven her?_

 

 

Maybe, in time. But she'd never know the answer to that question, now would she?

 

 

_What about her and Mark? Would their infidelity blossom into something else?_

 

 

She don't think so. He's just a friend... _was a friend?_

 

 

She was thinking about Derek when she heard the distinctive sound of a belt unbuckling and a zipper sliding down. All awake now, she uncapped the familiar orange bottle, popping two into her mouth, then downing the rest of the juice. Looking into the bottle, the many identical tiny oval shaped pills with it's dosage engraved stared back at her and she found herself popping two more, swallowing dry.

 

 

_She's not an addict._ She's just in a lot of pain.

 

 

So, she allowed herself to daydream about the way Derek would stroke her hair whenever she had a headache. The way his fingers would find the small of her back when they're out with friends, colleagues, just so she knows he's there, that he's hers, that he wants her. She thought of the way his voice rumbled in her ear when they're cuddled in bed in the darkness. She thought of the way he hugged her when she burst out crying when she lost her first baby as an intern. Thought of the way it steadied her. Four months into the job, no deaths. _Not at all._ Not until one sunny summer when her Chief put her solely in charge of one of the Watson twins that she helped delivered the other day and he knew entirely that that baby wouldn't survive through the night. Needless to say her baby died on her watch. Her Chief had tricked her into thinking that she had killed him just so she could be thought a lesson on boundaries, on not getting too attached to her patients.

 

 

Derek must be going out of his mind, or Derek must _have_ been going out of his mind - she don't know which. But the thought of that hurts her almost as much as her pounding headache.

 

 

She's not sleepy anymore. The Percocet hadn't yet worked it's magic. She took four pills, double her normal dosage. It's just that two innocent pills are no longer acquiring her with the analgesic effect she craves.

 

 

_She's not an addict._ She just needs a bit more since she've been taking Percocet for an extended period.

 

 

At least she told Derek she loves him, she reminded herself that, as his heavy footsteps crept closer and closer. Bouncing off the four walls.

 

 

At least she's sure he knows.

 

 

He has to believe her.

 

 

_She loves him._

 

 

_Is he playing happily ever after with someone else now?_

 

 

_Is Derek happy?_

 

 

_Happier than he ever was when he was with her?_

 

 

_Was he ever even happy with her?_

 

 

"You coming to bed?" _he_ asked tiredly.

 

 

She knows it's not really a question. She hasn't got a choice. If she could, she'd say no.

 

 

_No!_

 

 

She has to please him.

 

 

_She wants to go home._

 

 

_He's_ just in _his_ underwear now and she nodded, she can't, she doesn't want to look at _him_. Reluctantly switching the TV off, she internally whimper with each agonising step.

 

 

_Oh, how she dread this part of the day!_

 

 

She wish she could just be dead.

 

 

This is what she gets for enjoying sex a tad bit more than the average classy women.

 

 

This is what she gets for cheating on her husband.

 

 

This is what she gets for being too clingy.

 

 

_He_ was sitting on _his_ side of the small single bed - the edge - she had to manoeuvre awkwardly to crawl towards the wall.

 

 

She doesn't meet his eyes. But she can clearly sense the intent in the air and she swallowed hard.

 

 

_Is Derek too in bed with someone else?_

 

 

It's a tight space to fit into but they, she made it work.

 

 

Facing the wall, curling over her side, _he_ rolled behind her and yanked her closer. She almost - just almost - flinched when _he_ touched her, when _he_ roughly - _he's_ never gentle - rubbed his cold mangled hand up and down her body, when _his_ breath huffed onto the thin skin of her neck, when she felt _him_ pressing against the back of her thigh.

 

 

She needs to have one of those out-of-body experiences right now, but she never does. She's pleading, begging God, asking for His help and guidance, but like always, her prayers were never heard. Maybe she's begging a little too much. Maybe He's tired of her constant whining. Maybe she shouldn't be begging at all. It's pathetic.

 

 

Like her mother had always said - _Begging are for the poor and Montgomeries are further from poor._

 

 

_But isn't that what she is now?_

 

 

Maybe she ought to just accept.

 

 

She closed her eyes, counting each and every creak the stupid bed made as _he_ moved inside of her.

 

 

Motionless, she does nothing. She wants to scream. She wants to cry. _It hurts_. Physically, not so much. The pain was coming from somewhere within. _It's psychological_. She doesn't understand why she's still not used to this. It's been seven years.

 

 

_... 97 ... 98 ..._

 

 

_He_ grabbed her by the jaw, using her mandible as leverage as _he_ thrusted harder and harsher. ... _99 ... 100 ..._ She choked back a moan and _he_ laughed at her. Nothing gets past _him_.

 

 

_Derek, I'm here...somewhere...I don't know where I am. I'm alive. I'm stuck. Please help me. Please, Derek._

 

 

She wants to stop thinking. She wants to switch off. _For good._ She wants _him_ to stop.

 

 

She wants to go home.

 

 

_Can she go home now?_


	3. Chapter 3 - 2,570 daysO

** Chapter 3 - 2,570 days **

_2,570 days. . ._

The biggest question so many people have in life, one that everyone have been seeking to answer for years is, _what happens when we die?_

 

_Will we go up in heaven?_ Is there even a heaven? _Will we linger on earth as unrest souls?_ Are ghosts even real? _Will we burn in hell?_ Hell seems to be way more plausible than a fluffy, flowery, bright, and happy-go-lucky world.

 

Maybe she's already in hell. _No, she's sure she is._ This is her hell. This is her nightmare. This is her doing.

 

_But why she is always putting the blame solely on herself?_

 

It takes two to ruin a marriage. If her husband hadn't been neglectful, she knows she wouldn't need to seek warmth and longing in another man's arms.

 

He was being an ass that afternoon at the hospital, she recalls. He had ignored her, pretending like he didn't see her filling in her charts at the nurse's station. _How can he not notice a 5'10" (over 6" with heels) redhead? His wife?_ Later that afternoon, she confronted him. He said and she quote - _You're not that special, Addison. Besides, I know I'll see you at home._

 

Maybe that's the problem, she keeps putting up with his nonsense. Because at the end of the day, he knows she'll always run back to him. _Sprint breathlessly back onto his arms_. And he couldn't be any more on point since she knows and she's never going to deny it - _oh no, she's not_ \- that the second she's out of here, she'll run back to him in a heartbeat. She'll beg him to take her back. She'll say her sorries like a broken record until he believes her. _I'm sorry, Derek. I'm so sorry. You have to know how sorry I am. Please, Derek, please forgive me._ She has her speech ready. She'll beg on her knees if she had to because she needs him.

 

He still loves her.

 

_Right?_

 

It takes two to ruin a marriage but she was just the last straw to their undoing. She only made things worse for _herself._

 

_She don't know for sure._

 

Science can't prove truth of the afterlife and she's still very much loyal to science because of what she has been through for the past seven years, it's only fair to conclude that there is no one up there. There's no one up there because she's still in here.

 

_No one._

 

A study is being conducted and she is their subject.

 

Before - years and years ago - when she was still new to this shoebox, when she still had hope, she would kneel beside the bed, peering up the skylight and prayed. Muttering her desperate despairs because she hadn't got a clue on how to pray, the process and the appropriate enchantments. _But God ought to understand her, right?_ He knows all. He knows everything. He knows what's in her heart. He's God after all.

 

_So why is she still here?_

 

_Why hasn't He worked a miracle and save them?_

 

_Is this a lesson?_

 

If it is, then she thinks it's stupid because there are people far worse than her.

 

She's a doctor. She saves life. She gives babies a chance in life. She's great at what she does because she invests her all in every case and in every patient until she's all out, both physically and mentally. Then, she'll very careful wrap herself in a cocoon of self-deprivation and pretends she's undaunted.

 

_Why can't she go home? She's not the worst person on earth._

 

At least she don't think she is.

 

She hadn't slept a wink all night. Only staring at the wall that she's practically pressed into. She couldn't sleep even when her body was screaming at her brain to shut off. _She couldn't._ _He_ snores like a wild bore and takes up two thirds of the bed. Leaving her to curl on her side to accommodate _him_.

 

_Everyone else's needs comes before hers now._

 

She used to have everything. She realised that now. Husband, career, friends, family, houses, money, cars and the list goes on. She was living the life. _A good life._ She was just too arrogant - it's hereditary, so it's not exactly her to blame - and selfish to see that then. _Attention_. She was her Chief's star resident and she was only in her first year. _You're a damn good surgeon_ , her Chief had said to her. She had the attention of hospitals across the country because of her success rate and minimal mortality rate. She was on top of her game. _On her way to being the best of the best._ She made heads turn wherever she goes. _The loud echo of her heels._ She thrives on attention. _Attention_. She had everyone's attention but not from the one person that mattered the most.

 

_Derek._

 

It's been a lifetime since she slept with Derek. A lifetime of seven plus years. Not just slept _slept_ with Derek, but simply slept next to him.

 

She regards the last time she shared a mattress with him. It's been too long, she can't really remember. He hadn't been home at all since the day he walked in on them. _Three days?_ She thinks so. She've been waiting for him all night since he said he'd come home for dinner. But eight o'clock turned to nine and that turned to ten, he still wasn't home.

 

She tried calling him. Twice to no avail. She was starving but she kept on waiting. _He's on his way. He'll be here._ Letterman was on that night, she's sure of it.

 

When he eventually came home, she felt his cold hands on her arm, shaking her. Blinking at him, groggy with sleep, she had apparently fallen asleep on the couch.

 

"Hey, Addie. Sorry I woke you up." he was kneeling in front of her, fingers playing with her hair.

 

She mumbled something sleepily and shrugged his hand away from her face.

 

"I missed dinner. I'm sorry, Addie." he kissed her cheek lightly, "There was some complications with Ms. Lindsay. She didn't make it." he said, brushing her glossy and vibrant hair away from her face.

 

Wordlessly, she sat up, rubbing her hands over her arms for warmth and he sat next to her on the couch.

 

_It was March. A week after Derek's birthday. How can she ever forget that March?_

 

She hates that she can't really be mad at him. He's doing his job. She would've done the same thing.

 

"You could've called."

 

"I should've, I know that, but it was an emergency. It wasn't like I could risk my patient's life to phone you."

 

There was spite in his tone and she's just too petty to let that slide.

 

"You could've asked someone." she staggered up the stairs to their bedroom, tired. Both of them too exhausted to start a fresh argument.

 

_Maybe in the morning._

 

The antique clock read fifty-three minutes past twelve. She has exactly six hours and seven minutes before her alarm screams at her. But right now, her stomach was screaming to be fed. She hadn't had anything since lunch.

 

Derek crawled into bed a little later because she felt his warm lips on her shoulder, whispering, "You didn't eat dinner, did you?"

 

"S'okay." she muttered sleepily, her eyes still closed and he wrapped his arm around her. "Wasn't hungry anyway." she mumbled and he drew her against his body, holding her close.

 

That morning as she woke up, the bed was empty even before her alarm went off.

 

That was the last time she slept with Derek. If only she knew that in three days her life would have taken a turn for the ultimate worse, she wouldn't have ever stopped embracing him.

 

The insidiously loud clatter of rain droplets hit the tin roof of this fucking hellhole - _bang! bang!_ \- and she's certain her brain was vibrating with each and every patter. It's loud, annoyingly so, rattling the entire room.

 

Christopher is asking for her milk now as he pulled at the hem of her shirt and she reluctantly allowed him to take one of her breasts. They're sore and painful as he latched onto her right and she cried out, hissing at him to try the left.

 

Ow...

 

_Is it odd that she's still nursing her five-year-old?_

 

The outside world would think so.

 

_But since it's just the two of them in here, it isn't weird, is it?_

 

There's no one to judge them.

 

There's no one to criticise them.

 

There's no one to call them freaks.

 

It's a very natural occurrence between a mother and her child. She should know, this is her specialty.

 

She knows he needs to wean off but he's not ready yet. He'll let her know when it's time. And she, she's not ready to let go of the skin-to-skin contact just yet. She loves their bond which only grows stronger, caressing his cheek, watching him as he watch her, the oxytocin surging through their bodies, the love she has for her beautiful boy.

 

But she just can't take away his comfort, familiarity and solace. Besides breast milk contains powerful nutrients and immunological benefits that's well-acquainted to a child's needs.

 

That's what she always tells her patients. Breastfeeding is important for every child's growth. She's an advocate for attachment parenting.

 

_What would the outsiders ever think of them?_

 

Smiling, because studies have shown that faking a smile can actually trick the brain into happiness, she looked up at the blurry streaks on the skylight and quietly sang "Singing in the Rain" since it's Christopher's favourite song to sing whenever it's raining.

 

"Why you didn't tell him before that is my birthday?" he sat up.

 

_Oh, goodness. Here we go again!_

 

She stopped smiling and tucked her t-shirt into her pants. _Him_. "You're meant to be asleep when _he's_ here."

 

"But if you told _him_ , _he'd_ brung me something."

 

"Bring. It's bring, not brung." she corrected, "And so _he_ says."

 

"Yes, _he_ will. _He_ brung - bring us stuffs all the time. You should have told _him_." he crossed his arms around his small chest.

 

She yawned, stretching her long limbs. "I don't want _him_ bringing you things."

 

"But _he_ bring us treat-"

 

"That's different, Christopher." she cut him off, "Those are things we need that I ask _him_ for." she pointed to the dresser, where hung the jeans _he_ brought last night since she had asked for a new pair for Christopher. She had actually asked for a new pair two weeks prior. "There's your new jeans, by the way."

 

Dragging her feet across the cold concrete, she went over to the other corner to use the _'bathroom'_ , ignoring her son's bickering since like her, he will never back down.

 

Not any time soon.

 

_It's a Montgomery trait._

 

She checked every box to fulfil the Montgomery trait.

 

_Manipulative. Hardheads. Marriage wreckers. Liars. Fake smilers to conceal emotions. And most of all, they excel at holding up their liquor._

 

That's a Montgomery.

 

_We're Addison and Derek. We don't quite._

 

The longest she hadn't spoken to Derek, ever, was three weeks - _or_ _perhaps seven years_ \- because none of them wanted to give up so easily. But of course when needed, they were professionals at the hospital.

 

For the life of her, she can't recall what they were fighting about. Petty, for sure, and definitely unnecessary. And most likely provoked by him but surely, instigated to become a gigantic argument by her.

 

"You could ask _him_ for a present for me. I never got a present in my life."

 

"Your present was from me, remember? It was the cake."

 

"I don't want the stinky cake." he yelled and kicked a plastic chair which toppled upside down.

 

She snagged to the kitchen, opening a few cabinets as she does to distract herself. _What should she do? What should she do?_ Because his wailing is loud and it's bouncing off the walls, ringing in her ears. _Oh, no!_ She can't stay in this shoebox any longer. _She can't._ She needs to find a way out.

 

_Breakfast!_ That's right, she needs to think about breakfast, instead of the fit her son's throwing.

 

He's too old for tamper tantrums.

 

She knows tantrums are apart of a child's development but they are mostly common between the ages of one to three.

 

_Christopher is five._

 

_Well, she's thirty-five and she too still throws tantrums._

 

He's sobbing uncontrollably now. Wet, slippery snot and tears covered his reddened face.

 

She let him whine and shout for a while because she understands his frustration, because her parents had forgotten her sixth birthday and had went on their trip to Croatia, because she vowed to never treat her child the way her parents did with her and her brother.

 

She was once five, she too would want to be lavished with gifts. And he would have been, under different circumstances.

 

He sees it on TV all the time. Kids, joyfully and excitedly ripping the wrappers off their presents and since he's only part Forbes-Montgomery, he doesn't know how to hide his true feelings.

 

His behaviour right now will never be tolerated by Bizzy. He will definitely be banished to be locked in a closet. _Which closet?_ Any closet that Bizzy pushes you in.

 

"It's ok." she knelt down in front of him, and held him tight. Rubbing circles on his back to calm him down.

 

"It might-"

 

"I can't hear you. Calm down. Take a deep breath."

 

He did.

 

"It might-"

 

"Tell me what's the matter." she said, wiping his tears away with the flat of her palms.

 

"It might be a dog."

 

"What might?" she's confused now.

 

"The present. It might be a dog for real real, and we could call him Jack." he said through the relentless tears.

 

_A dog?_

 

_Where is this silliness coming from?_

 

He's spending too much time watching TV.

 

Wiping his tears away again, she fought the urge to laugh out loud. It's quite funny, actually. _Her son's funny._ Crazy but still, nonetheless hilarious. "You know we don't have room."

 

They barely have room for themselves.

 

"Yeah, we do."

 

"Dogs need walks."

 

The furtherest walk in this shoebox is from the door to the bedroom, which all in all is merely ten feet apart.

 

"We walk."

 

"But a dog-"

 

"We run every morning, Jack could go beside us. I bet he'd be faster than you."

 

"Christopher. A dog would drive us nuts."

 

"No, he wouldn't." he protested.

 

"Oh, yes, it will." She, herself, is going nuts already. "Cooped up, the barking, the scratching-"

 

"Jack wouldn't be scratching."

 

Oh, he doesn't know anything about dogs. They scratch. They bark. They bite. They ruffle. They jump. They run. They walk. The excrete everywhere and anywhere. They simply make a mess of everything. And it will definitely drive itself to insanity.

 

_Dogs needs space. A lot of space._

 

Besides, she's not so much of a dog person. She prefers cats.

 

So, she rolled her eyes, he's being very unreasonable, and went back to the cabinet to get the box of cereals since she's not in any mood to cook breakfast anymore.

 

She poured a handful of cereals in their bowls, humming something to block him out.

 

_What is she doing debating with a five-year-old who has never seen or touched a dog?_

 

He growled, stomping towards her. "In the night when you're asleep, I'm going to be awake, I'll pull the foils out of the holes so Mouse will come back."

 

"Don't be silly."

 

"I'm not silly, you're silly." he shouted.

 

"Listen, I understand-"

 

"Mouse and Jack are my friends." he screamed again and all she wants is for him to quiet down, to stop screaming.

 

Now, she understands why the maniac hates it when she screams. It's loud, irritating and piercing.

 

If the maniac was here ... she remembered the last time she screamed on top of her lungs - _stop, get off me, no, leave me alone, don't, please don't_ \- he knocked a tooth out.

 

* * *

_**Seven Years Ago** _

 

* * *

"Don't ! Don't!" she tried screaming but her cries were muffled by the thick hands that were clumped to her mouth.

 

She can't go through this again. She just can't. She'd rather be killed than be held prisoner, than be used and violated in such heinous way.

 

"Stop yelling!"

 

"Ok! Ok! Just let me go! I promise I won't tell anyone!"

 

_He_ just laughed at her and shoved her up against the wall, _he_ pinned her there, staring into her with a smile that reminded her of a reptile's grin.

 

"I promise. If you let me go right now, I promise I won't tell anyone..." her voice quavered, but it was low and calm. She learned that from Derek. He's always calm, even in threatening situations. "It's no big deal. All you have to do is let me go."

 

"You really think I'm dumb enough to believe you?!" _his_ sneer twisted _his_ face. "Like I said yesterday or four weeks ago, you're never getting out of here."

 

Ice-cold shock courses through her. _Again_. She felt _his_ fingers biting into her flesh, and her breath came in short gasps, but as she tried to steady it, to take a deep breath, all she could think of was what _he'd_ just said.

 

_...you're never getting out of here._

 

She's never getting out of here.

 

She've been in here for what seemed like an eternity already. She wants to go home to her husband.

 

_He_ purposefully pressed _his_ body, hard, onto hers - _his_ weight crushing her dainty self - and eagerly smashed _his_ mouth against hers in order to shut her up. She pressed her lips tightly against one another, not letting _him_ in, and wiggled around to try and kick _him_ off of her. _His_ tongue and mouth moved roughly, sloppily and aggressively as she tried pushing _him_ away. Failing miserably when _he_ chomped down on her bottom lip. Crying in pain, she can taste the bursting copper in her mouth, and that gave _him_ the prime juncture to jam _his_ tongue inside. She choked on the nausea that almost made its presence, feeling absolutely repulsed at herself.

 

But she's a Montgomery, so, anger and stubbornness gotten ahold of her and she too saw her chance to chomped down on his tongue, giving _him_ a taste of _his_ own medicine.

 

She watched in slow motion as _his_ right arm pulled back into the air, balling into a fist while the left was crushing her trachea. Shutting her eyes tight, she was crazy enough to provoke a psycho.

 

Sure enough, a powerful blow connected with her cheek, making her head snap to the side. A small pain-filled whimper escaped her lips as she struggled to stay awake.

 

"You shouldn't have done that, pretty face." _he_ hissed, looking at her in pity. Like _his_ actions towards her were all because of her now.

 

"I don't want to hurt you but-" _he_ didn't stop to waste any time in delivering the next couple of blows to her face and abdomen. Literally winding her. She curled to her side to avoid _his_ batter but the hits kept on coming. Each one much harder than the other. Each one rattling her bones even louder. Her mouth now tasted strongly of metal. The heavy blows had left her feeling groggy and she gave up. Knowing she hadn't got a chance anymore.

 

"And that's to let you know who's in charge."

 

* * *

With her tongue, she felt for the space that once crowned her second molar. _Thank goodness it's not one of her incisors._ It takes a lot of strength to knock a tooth out and he did when he bashed his fists into her skul.

 

Bizzy wouldn't be pleased with her missing tooth, it had taken them a lot of money and time for her to have perfect a set of teeth.

 

_Not everyone is naturally blessed with perfect teeth structure._

 

Hers just happened to be all over the place. And thank you for cosmetic dentistry because if it was for the orthodontic headgear that she had to wear for over a year, she'd be, like Bizzy had said, ugly.

 

"Ma!" Christopher's now right in front of her, snapping her back to the present with his screaming. "Ma, you're not listening to me! Maaaa!"

 

She has had enough. If he screams one more time, she's going to have a mental breakdown.

 

"There is no Mouse and there definitely will be no Jack!" she shouted.

 

"Yea, there is. And I love you them. I love them more than I love you."

 

_But I love you more than anything in this world._

 

She knows his words shouldn't hurt her but it did. _It really really did._ A lot more than she would like to admit. The love of her life, her baby doesn't love her. _No, he does._ He's just angry. Everyone says things they don't mean when they're angry.

 

_He doesn't mean it. Does he?_

 

Closing her burning eyes, she brought her fingers to her lips, and swallowing the tears that were too proud to fall down her cheeks.

 

"Also, Mouse is my real friend and you made him gone-"

 

"Yea," she croaked, "so he won't run over your face in the night and bite your nose off."

 

"No! I never knew Mouse would bite my face, I thought that was only vampires."

 

"And since Jack's your friend and he must love you too, why don't you ask him to make you breakfast!"

 

And so she left him there, angry, and began cleaning the room like she was told to do so.

 

* * *

_The sun enables life. The rain grants it safe passage._

 

It began as a whispering in the air. The day had been a beautiful one and the sky was like a dome of plasma-blue. The clouds had looked like airy anvils drifting under the gleaming disc of sun.

 

But just as quickly because the weather is unpredictable here in Seattle or must he say predictable, a variable, the once gleaming sky turned gloomy and grey. It is a shrieking, keening omen of the carnage to follow. He knows that.

 

He didn't sleep a wink last night. _Not at all_. He couldn't stop thinking about _her_. Today's the day that everything fell apart and the miserable year that followed.

 

Like the rainy sky above that held meaning to this melancholy day, he tried not think about today. _But he can't._ It's forever etched in his mind, like _her_. He'll always love her. Of course, he will. _How can one just fall out of love with someone they've known for a third of their life?_

 

One might think he must with what _she_ had done and it had taken him for _her_ to be forever gone to realise how much of a lousy husband he was. And with that in mind, a lesson learned, he's never going to make that same mistake.

 

_It's March 7th._ The day his life changed. The day everything in his life fell apart. _March 7th._ Seven years ago. A mistake he made. The beginning of the end. _He shouldn't have._ He knows he shouldn't have. But he was angry. He was so hurt. _How could she?_ Regardless, he shouldn't have done what he did and also, _she_ should not have done what _she_ did. But if he hadn't, _she_ wouldn't be forever gone.

 

She doesn't know about New York and he has no intentions in telling her. All he told her was that he needed a change of scenery, a new perspective, a change in pace because New York's too hectic.

 

The clouds raced across the sky, thrumming with the charged energy they are desperate to release. _Rain._ It starts with big, sopping drops of moisture. They are wild and indiscriminate, plump missiles of mass destruction that splatter onto the soft soil. The topsoil turns into slushy goo, but it doesn't matter because he is sleeping next to -

 

Then an unearthly caterwauling sound fills the air. The wind whips up into frenzy.

 

_How is it possible?_

 

He finds it charming that such a big noise can come from such a little person.

 

Then, she is abruptly awake, cutting off the nasally echo midair.

 

_Finally!_

 

He's been waiting for hours.

 

"Morning." he chimed, tucking her sandy blonde hair behind her ear and leaned in for a good morning kiss.

 

"Were you watching me sleep?" she said softly, rubbing her eyes as she looked at him.

 

"Maybe."

 

He smiled and placed a kiss on her neck.

 

She sighed, raising a brow, and linked her arms around him, "What are you, some kind of weirdo who watches women sleep?"

 

He placed a second kiss on her shoulder and ran his hand down to grab the bottom of his dress shirt, which - admittedly - looks so much better on her.

 

"Maybe."

 

* * *

"Ma, I'm hungry." she heard Christopher call out for her as she laid with her arms across her eyes, on the ridiculously small and uncomfortable, snot-green couch. Her long limbs curled to her chest so she could accommodate her entire length.

 

Well, he should've thought about his words before saying what he had said. After all, she is only human. She gets hurt sometimes, like a normal person would. Even though she'd never register the emotion on her face - _never_ \- that doesn't mean she doesn't have any feelings.

 

A Montgomery never reveals their true emotions, it's unheard of. A Montgomery buries their feelings, buries them deep. Deeper and deeper into the earth. Deeper than six feet.

 

She learned that; young. Like all Montgomeries do.

 

Since she hated her upbringing, hated her mother's stupid sets of rules, hated her father's dirty little secrets, hated that her father had passed her with the adulterous gene, hated the way she was thought to view life, she promised at a young age that she'd never be cold, she'd never force ridiculous rules upon her children, she'd never cheat and she'd never view life negatively.

 

But it's all she's doing now. She has turned into her mother. _Oh, goodness! She's Bizzy, isn't she?_

 

She's being unnecessarily cold to Christopher. _Isn't she?_ But she's just so exhausted. Drained of every last drop of blood, glow, strength and stamina. Her depletion just worsened when she got here.

 

She had spent the entire morning scrubbing, brushing, wiping, dusting, washing - she had hand washed their laundry - like she was instructed to do so. She can't disappoint _him_ tonight. Hoping that tonight, _he'll_ be satisfied. She can't stand it whenever _he's_ criticising her.

 

She's a highly sought after doctor - OB/GYN.

 

_Well, she was._ She _was_ highly sought after. And again, her aching wrist is a reminder of what her life could've been if only she had the willpower to keep her desperation at wits.

 

Ignoring Christopher when he called out again, she looked at the clock, eleven minutes past three in the afternoon, it read. She's hungry too. Or at least she thinks she is. She hadn't had anything since yesterday's lunch - maybe that's why she's always exhausted, she barely eats - and she knows she should eat something, anything but she just doesn't have any desire too.

 

She eats sometimes but not all the time. She picks at her food like a child would and complains when Christopher follows.

 

_"Don't play with your food, Christopher." she'd scold him._

 

She's well aware of her hypocrisy. _But isn't that what parents are?_

 

Hypocrites.

 

They hadn't said a word to each other since this morning's quarrel, anger fuelling her son's silence while pain on her part. So, she started her day with Pilates and he took out his _'schoolbooks'_ and proceeded to complete the math questions she had prepared for him.

 

He's learning division now.

 

_Silence_.

 

They still function well in silence.

 

_Montgomeries are stubborn too._

 

"Maaaaaa..." he's closer now, she noticed. Not at the table anymore. Then, she felt his soft little hand on her cheek, rubbing to wake her up.

 

She pried her tired eyes open. "What?"

 

"I'm hungry."

 

"Oh, yeah." she chuckled, "I said to ask your friends to cook you your meals, remember?"

 

Shaking his head, he jumped around, whining, "Maaaaaa..."

 

She sat back up with a heavy huff and tied her hair messily. "You hurt my feelings, Christopher."

 

He will never understand the deep anguish his little words caused her. _I love them more than I love you._ It may seem little but it hurts like a stab to her very fragile heart.

 

He will never reciprocate the hurt she had felt. Even though she knows she shouldn't take his words to heart, it still hurts nonetheless to hurt him say that he loves his imaginary friends more than he loves her. _His mother._ The woman who went through hell to have him. The woman who's doing anything in her limited amount of power to keep unwanted hands and eyes off of him. The woman who conceived him in the most grotesque way. The woman who loved him way before she felt him kick. The woman who chose not to bleed him away.

 

The woman who chose to love him instead.

 

He's her son and nobody else's.

 

_He's hers and only hers._

 

"I'm sorry, Ma. I didn't know your feelings can be hurted."

 

That's what she thought of Bizzy too.

 

Getting off the couch with a groan, her joints ached. She kissed his little nose and he held up his little arms, she responded by tugging him against her hip, and apologised for being petty. She's the grownup here. She ought to be the bigger person.

 

But sometimes, she doesn't want to be the grownup. That's Derek's job, he's the mature and calm one. And she, she's the clingy and whiny child.

 

_He's hers and only hers._

 

They hurried over to the _'kitchen'_ , making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches together before taking another pill and finding sweet relief the stygian darkness of her mind.

 

* * *

**_Six Years Ago_ **

 

* * *

Addison screamed. A loud, high-pitched, blood curdling scream. Or at least that's what she thought she did as her mind replayed the events of last night over and over again.

 

It's been too long since she had any contact with the outside world, since she talked to someone other than herself, since she saw her husband, since she had good food and wine, since she held a ten blade, since she had freedom.

 

Freedom used to be luxury for her. Now, it's something she's most desperately craving for.

 

She shouldn't have let _him_ done that to her. She should've put up more of a fight. _What good would that do? He'd_ just beat her senseless.

 

_It's not like he's done enough, right?_

 

She should've at least tried.

 

She wants to go back to a time where she was unharmed and untouched.

 

Laying on the far end of this stupidly tiny bed - battered and broken - she sobbed in pain and self pity. She wished she could just blend into the bland wall. She can only imagine how ugly and disgusting she must look. _Cordelia Van Tassel from med school was right. She is a whore._ With the amount of blood mixing with her tears, she knows she's beyond repair.

 

But then, she felt the bed sank and _he_ was now lying beside her. She flinched when _his_ hand caressed her cheek.

 

"Don't touch me." she snapped.

 

_He_ laughed.

 

Anger ignited in her. Eating her chest from the inside out. If only _he_ knew how she felt, _he_ wouldn't be laughing.

 

"Are you just gonna lie in bed and cry all day?" _he_ asked, fully aware of the anguish that she's currently in.

 

_What does he want with her?_

 

She bit down on her lip, controlling her sobs. Trying her best to muffle the sounds of her cries even when she wants nothing more than to scream and cry out loud. The insanity of _his_ question just further killed her. Convincing her that _he's_ totally mental, that _he's_ inhumane.

 

_Can't he just leave her alone?_

 

No one's looking for her. She's fully convinced. It's been over a year and she's still here.

 

It's Christmas and it's cold again.

 

_They've all forgotten about her._

 

Her husband hates her, so she can't really blame him.

 

Her parents...she doesn't really expect Bizzy and the Captain to do much.

 

Her elder brother - Archer - she doesn't know if he's looking for her or not, but he must because she would know that something so terribly wrong happened if he doesn't call her once a week, at the very least, because he's her family and she's all he's got.

 

If he isn't looking for her or at least harassing the police to exhaust every last penny they had in their budget to look for her, she will be torn into pieces. She'd rather die than know the truth.

 

She doesn't know what to think. _To stay positive or not? To have hope and fate or to just give up already?_

 

All she knows for certain is that she isn't the same _Addison_ anymore.

 

* * *

It was thirty minutes past seven in the evening when she woke up and she feels slightly better than she did yesterday and this morning. _Just slightly._ She's still nauseous - must be medicating on an empty stomach - and her head was still pounding a little.

 

_Fatigue._

 

She's suffering from extreme exhaustion.

 

Dinner was fish sticks and rice. It's one of Christopher's favourites. She doesn't understand why, she hates fish sticks. The brand _he_ buys aren't even the good ones - it's the cheapest, she's sure of it - she've had better, but Christopher likes them second to tuna. Again, she doesn't get why.

 

They settled on a cooking show because there aren't really anything good to watch. She knows Christopher would prefer cartoons but it's prime time, there aren't any in the evening. She gave him the rest of her dinner because he didn't eat much today and besides, she feels guilty for being insular this morning.

 

"Ma, what is the cooking woman making?" he asked.

 

"Chef, sweetie." she said, "She's a Chef. And she's making mince pie. It's a Christmas pie with dried fruits and spices."

 

_Oh, Christmas_...she used to love Christmas. They used to love Christmas. The silver tinsel, glittery, glistening red and green globes, shiny lights and the large Christmas tree sitting oh-so beautifully in the corner of their brownstone. It was their holiday and everyone who knows them knows that. Well, Derek used to love celebrating Christmas with her. _Used to._ He probably grew tired of her. The last few years before everything went south, he would spend December the twenty-fifth in the hospital while she, she'll celebrate the holiday by herself - and Mark will occasionally pop up out of the blue - with a bottle of Chateau Lafite.

 

His eyes brighten at the prosperity, "Can we make mince pie, Ma?"

 

_When they're out of here, sure. Everyday._

 

But she shook her head. "Sorry. _He's_ going to get angry."

 

Mince pie has a lot of ingredients which costs quite the money and besides, it's not necessary for them to indulge in desserts.

 

He nodded. She's glad that he finally understood to not ask any further questions about _him_.

 

She smiled, ruffling his brown hair. He needs a bath and a change of clothes. But they don't have time now, it's almost nine and he's coming soon. Maybe in the morning then.

 

Christopher doesn't believe that the food they see on TV are real, even though she had insisted a thousand times that they are. He thinks that real food comes in a can. Like the kinds of food they eat.

 

A split second later, they're watching a fitness channel with two very shiny and bulky men working out various apparatus.

 

_When was the last time she went to a gym?_

 

She don't know. _Medical school?_

 

After medical school, the hospital was her workout. It's all the workout she needs to keep fit anyway.

 

He changed the channels again.

 

"Christopher, would you just settle on one channel. You switching channels is giving me a headache." she said as she messaged her throbbing temples.

 

They're now at home makeover channel.

 

Groaning internally, she's once again reminded of her home in the Upper East Side and how excited she was to redecorate and furnish the interior the way she liked.

 

Avantgarde living room tiles. Antique Persian carpets. Black marble kitchen countertops. Polished chrome waterfall styled rain shower head with a porcelain freestanding iron Clawfoot tub. The stone look bathroom wall tiles.

 

A six month long renovation and she can't ever forget the night he carried her into their new house. It was just a three-story prewar - 1899 - limestone building with original glass and wooden doors encasing, but they are the ones who made it a home.

 

She loved that house, initially she, _they_ really did. She loved the smell of their leather sofa. Walking through the wooden door and into the vestibule, arm in arm with her husband. Kicking off her highest heels, then sauntering into their kitchen for her daily dose of red wine. Asking Derek if he'd want his scotch. But slowly, over the years - she's not too sure when the beginning of their end started - it became a house of horrors, a house of sorrow and loneliness. A home where it knows that she's craving for attention - Derek's attention. A home that's no longer warm and cozy. A home that has become cold and eerie. _It's all her fault anyway._ And she hates going home because she knows she'll be all alone. And after a while, she stopped calling Derek to ask - _no_ \- to beg him to come home, he knows very well how much she hates sleeping alone, because she knows what he's going to say, his words always hurt more than his absence.

 

"Did she like it brown better?" Christopher questioned and she was pulled away from her reverie.

 

"What?"

 

"The TV woman, she's crying now because her house is yellow." he pointed at the screen.

 

She listened intently on whatever the teary woman was saying now.

 

"Oh, no." she said, "She's so happy about her newly designed house that it's making her cry."

 

"That's weird. Is she happy-sad, like you get when there's lovely music on TV?"

 

Like when she hears their wedding song on the radio. Like when she hears Chopin or Tchaikovsky because it reminded her of Bizzy yelling at her to practice the piano.

 

"No, she's just stupid. Let's turn the TV off."

 

She's having her entire house decorated for free and they're confined to a 13"x10"! And she's crying! What for?

 

_Life's fucking dandy, isn't it?_

 

"Five more minutes? Please?"

 

She shook her head.

 

-:-

 

_Three short flashes. Three long flashes. Three short flashes._

 

She waited for a while, still pointing the flashlight up at the skylight before repeating the tiresome task, which has now become an ultimately useless process, all over again.

 

But she had to try again, even when all her efforts are futile. She had to not give up. _Montgomeries are persistent._ Maybe someone is out there, awake in the dead of the night, and will notice the flickering light - a cry for help.

 

_Who knows?_

 

Maybe tonight is their night.

 

Maybe tonight, they will be rescued.

 

Maybe tonight, they will go home.

 

Maybe tonight, she'll get to sleep on her $3,899 Zenhaven natural latex memory foam mattress.

 

Maybe...just maybe.

 

_Three short flashes. Three long flashes. Three short flashes._

 

SOS

 

_Save Our Souls._

 

The continuous spaceless sequential distress signal is the International Morse code for maritime distress that was first adopted by the Germans, which she guess is not only for maritime related distress.

 

_Right?_

 

She has the rights to use the code too since she, herself, really is in distress. A seven year long distress.

 

_Three short flashes. Three long flashes. Three short flashes._

 

Her brother had taught her the distress code years and years ago . _Archer_. She sighed. It was then that she felt the longing ache in her chest as hot tears burned the back of her eyes. She hadn't allowed herself to think about her brother for the past seven years. _She just couldn't._ It hurts too much to think of him. Feeling herself begin to unravel, she gripped her arms, trying to hold herself together.

 

She misses her brother so much. So so much.

 

Oh, how she would give up everything in this world to hear her overprotective older brother yell at her again, yelling that she's making the biggest mistake of her life, yelling that he's only looking out for her, yelling that he's older, that he knows better, that he's wiser.

 

She wish to hear him again. But this time, it'll be different, she'll listen to him.

 

Her brother who had carried her home after literally flying off her pink bicycle because she had mistakenly pressed the break handles and tumbled down the little hill not a second later, scrapping her face in the process.

 

She was terrified to say the least and it wasn't because she was bleeding or that the skin on her face had peeled to shreds, she was frightened of how Bizzy was going to react.

 

_"It's okay, Addie. Please stop crying. I'll tell Bizzy that it was my fault."_

 

_"I wanna go home, Archie."_

 

He has always been the one who took care of her, his duty because they don't live in a conventional household. _He was her saviour._ And when a bunch of girls in the second grade were teasing her for her lisp caused by her protruding bucktooth - _admittedly, her young self looked so utterly grotesque_ \- he saved her. And when Chad Michael, a boy whom she had a crush on since the fifth grade, kiss-and-tell, informing the entire school of how much of a bad kisser she was, he saved her. And when her first ever boyfriend, the first boy to whom she has ever loved, Chuck Bass - the sole heir of the New York Palace Hotel - broke up with her because she wasn't ready to blossom just yet - she was only fifteen - he saved her.

 

She wonders how Archer's doing right now.

 

_Is he married?_

 

Seven years can change a person.

 

She ought to know.

 

_Three short flashes. Three long flashes. Three short flashes._

 

She remembers crawling into his bed late one night - twenty plus years ago - mortified of the clasping thunder.

 

_"What're you reading?" she lisped and looked over at the book he had propped on his lap._

 

_"Morse Code. Now, shush, Addie, if you want to sleep here with me tonight."_

 

She choked on her tears.

 

A myriad of scenes spun around her head of her brother, her brother who held her hand on her first day at the Dalton School, of her brother who screamed at Senna Montclair because she had said, quote and quote - _you're the ugliest person in the entire school, not just in the entire eighth grade_ \- of her brother who caught her smoking a cigarette - her first and last smoke - then sneaking a boy into her room at sixteen, of her brother who taught her how to drive the red Porsche the Captain had bought for her to silence what she had witnessed, of her brother who danced with her at her wedding, who told that she's making a mistake, who told her she could do better.

 

_"He's not like us, Addie." he snarled at her in the dressing room as she got ready for her big day. That's what he calls a pre-wedding speech - criticising the choices she had made._

 

_"Be happy for me, Archer. I love him." she was hurt nonetheless that her brother and her husband-to-be couldn't get along with one another._

 

_She was so torn._

 

She loves her brother so much.

 

_Three short flashes. Three long flashes. Three short flashes._

 

It has always been him and her against the world. Then, Derek came along and she had to push Archer to the side. She couldn't spend much time with her brother anymore. She was busy with medical school and Derek and he was busy with being a doctor and his passion for writing.

 

The last time she saw her brother, before this happened, was in Christmas. Three months before she was taken.

 

She wants to see him again.

 

Archer is out there and she's in here, living a nightmare.

 

So, she spoke the words she hid in her heart. "I wanna go home, Archie."

 

Her stomach tied in knots, and she hugged her knees tightly to her chest, shivering, biting her knuckles to hold back a scream.

 

"Ma?"

 

With Christopher's soft voice, she startled badly, nearly dropping the flashlight in her hand. Quickly, she turned away, rubbing her hands across her eyes.

 

But he can't see her. It's dark.

 

"Yes, baby." she said. Her voice shaking.

 

_He's hers and only hers._

 

"All done?"

 

"Yea. Sorry I woke you." she crawled back into bed and let him snuggle into her side, wrapping his arm around her middle.

 

"That's ok."

 

Suddenly, tears were prickling at her eyes again and she can't seem to stop them anymore.

 

_He's hers and only hers._

 

"Ma..." he started, her thumb rubbing against his soft cheek "Hmm?" she mumbled and tried to smile at him.

 

"Where are we when we're asleep?"

 

"Right here." she kissed his head, combing her fingers gently through his brown locks.

 

"But dreams...do we go in TV for dreaming?"

 

She whispered into his hair, "No. We're never anywhere but here."

 

_Will she die in here?_

 

* * *

_**Thank you guys so much for reading.** _


	4. 2,574 days. . .

**Chapter 4 - 2,574 days**

 

_2,574 days. . ._

_Does consciousness move on after death? Is it simply a product of the brain or the brain itself is a receiver of consciousness?_

 

If consciousness is not a product of the brain, it would mean that our physical bodies are not necessary for its continuation; that awareness can exist outside our bodies.

 

Questions, she still has a legion of them swarming in the swell of her mind. The frontal lobe, she thinks, she's not very sure. That's Derek's department, he's the brain connoisseur and she actually never really excelled at neuroanatomy. Besides her brain's not too refreshed on medicine these days and she has a good explanation for it but she's still very much lucid and perhaps sane as well - to a certain degree...for now that is.

 

She's not too sure how she's been doing it, really. She hasn't got the slightest clue because at the beginning, she was so certain that she was going to drive herself to insanity. It's the same mundane cycle over and over and over again.

 

_Sleep. Survive. And pray that he doesn't come back._

 

Or.

 

_Sleep. Survive. And when he does come back, pray he doesn't decide to beat the shit out of her._

 

But then she realised there was no point in psyching herself out because either way, _he_ is going to come back and she is never to come out. Because _he_ might not be back today or tomorrow but she certainly will stay here today, tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that and for all the days to come.

 

She used to do the most in trying to escape - the first year only.

 

Scratching and clawing at the wooden floorings - yes, the concrete floor used to be wood before _he_ 'renovated' this fucking dump - until almost all of her nails ripped off. Literally. Her perfectly manicured nails are now ancient history. She hates her hands, her fingers, her nails; they're calloused, bony and blunt. _Ugly_. She hates looking at them.

 

She avoids every chance she's got. She's embarrassed.

 

Moving the table around so she could stand on it and fist at the skylight above with her bare hands and of course, the glass is shatterproof glass. And her efforts are almost laughable now because it was as if she thought she had the upper body strength to lift her five feet eight inches long self through that opening. Her long arms are of no use in carrying her weight.

 

_Yea_. She'd like to ask someone - anyone for that matter - whether society will be ready to accept a misfit, an outcast like her, like them, or if she will be zealous and resilient enough for the world that's probably awaiting her because it has already been seven long years and that's a very long time to be be out of touch with humanity.

 

It's basic human needs - to belong, to communicate, to be apart of a community, to feel loved by others. It's Maslow's hierarchy of needs. And heaven knows none of the five basic dimensions in that damn pyramid are fulfilled.

 

Physiological needs are subpar.

 

Safety needs are nonexistent here.

 

She's always anxious. She bet her adrenal glands are self-destructing.

 

And the rest doesn't need to be heard as the two bare minimum aren't even fulfilled yet.

 

_Never, most likely._

 

She was safe with Derek, actually. Then she wasn't too convinced that he'd be her knight in shining armour anymore. If she were to be chased by a rabid dog, he'd still be glued to his precious BlackBerry. She was convinced. Maybe a few years prior, she could've believed that he'd sweep her off her feet and save her. _Maybe_. It was his dreamy and blazing endeavour that caught her attention. _Sweet, charismatic and quiet._ Almost as if he was too shy to be at her presence and she loved that.

 

_His gentleness._

 

But their relationship after marriage was like any other, she'd like to think. Comfortable with the occasional ups and downs. But the last year before this fucking mess, downs were more prevalent. The usual disputes, arguments and fights really just pushed them to polar ends. Each other's presence became a commodity and he had gotten so ruthless in being absent that she made herself to believe if she were to go missing - the irony - he wouldn't have even noticed.

 

She wonders if he had noticed. She hopes he had and at least called the cops.

 

_Safe_. Yes, she was as safe as she can be and she threw all that away for a momentary high, for a garden of forbidden words.

 

Derek never hurt her - well, not physically. She wouldn't call prying her fingers off the banister, then gripping her wrist too tightly and shoving her out the front door in any way physical because she have had a taste of physical and what Derek did is nowhere near that.

 

_What was that stupid little childhood saying?_

 

Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me.

 

_Hah!_ That's a lie from the pit of the enemy, right there. Words do hurt.

 

Derek's words cut deeper than any scalpel ever could, leave wounds that hurt worse than any other pain and caused tears as vast as the Pacific Ocean.

 

It's all just petty nonsense and petty nonsense is what really hurts the most, especially when it's from the person you love the most, whom you'd never expect to be spitting mean and hurtful dredges to your face. He's her husband, and to her, that's really all the reason there needs to be.

 

_You're not that special, Addison._

 

_You yap like it's the end of the world. Just shut it already._

 

_Is that all?_

 

_I wish I never met you._

 

That's when he's at his wits end.

 

_I-wish-I-never-met-you_ is what he would bash at her to make her shut up and he knew that and he used those words to his advantage on numerous occasions.

 

_I-wish-I-never-met-you_ means the same as _I-wish-I-never-married-you._

 

_I-wish-I-never-met-you_ hurt in ways he'd never understand.

 

He has his wish granted. He's pleased for sure.

 

The walls always dare to look somewhat different at night. _Arduous_. Not too drastic nor gruelling, just an unfamiliar, unwelcome slant. As if the daytime trees and wind and stones had gone to bed and sent slightly more ominous versions of themselves to take their place.

 

While the occasional hoots of a hidden owl was the only sound to permeate the silence, she quietly counted them as she hiked back and forth from either ends of the room, making sure the sink had been cleared of dishes, ground brushed, laundry been put away and books and toys shelved.

 

Proper, like _he_ wants this room to be.

 

Stopping on her tracks, she propped a tired hand on her hip - analysing - nodding in satisfaction that this dump is as prim and proper as it can be. And for someone who has never touched a broom and a dustpan as a child and only merely a handful of times as an adult, she thinks she has done a pretty superb job. Really. She'd give herself a pat on the back if she wasn't too exhausted to even raise an arm.

 

It's almost nine and _he'll_ be here any minute now.

 

She can't stand it when _he_ nags at her. It's irritating. She doesn't like it when people tell her what to do. _Never did_. Maybe that was how Derek felt when she nags at him. _Irritated_. Now, she can definitely relate.

 

But the only difference is that, _he_ nags at her to intentionally and very purposefully get under her skin, to demean her, to defile her self-esteem and dignity, while Derek, he, for sure, needed the nagging because it will take him an eternity to listen to her.

 

"Ma, are we still real?" Christopher's soft whisper echoed and she can see his curious blues through the slats of the cupboard.

 

She had startled badly, almost dropping the mug in hand. Sending thanks to nobody because she can't afford to break one more cup - needless to say _he_ would be furious with her.

 

"What do you mean?" she asked. Maybe it has something to do with what she tried to explain to him the other day, that there's a whole, wonderful and vastly coloured world out of these four walls.

 

Having tried explaining and almost giving up because Christopher didn't want to listen to any of her 'stupid' stories, as he called them, throwing a fit when she tried desperately to get him to believe her tales of reality, of the outside world and how his life isn't suppose to be just bound within this small space.

 

It was all too much for him to comprehend, she should've known. He's only five.

 

She had apologised and got him to calm down and he had told her to tell him the story again when he's six. _Six_. He just turned five a month ago and six is another year away. Stubborn, he's just like her. The thought of existing here for another year crumbled the temporary wall she had built and so, she spent the whole night crying.

 

Crying in fear and in frustration because her son can get annoying sometimes - don't get her wrong, she loves him to pieces but he's still a kid and kids are without a shadow of doubt, annoying - she hates it in here and she wants to go home. Crying because Christopher is only getting older and bigger and it will certainly be much harder for her to hide him away. She don't think he can fit into the cupboard for the next year anymore.

 

He's a Montgomery and Montgomeries are long. And that's ultimately why she needs to start coming up with a solid and feasible plan or plans for their great escape.

 

No more time consuming and tiresome chores of shinning SOS signs at skylight at night, she needs to think because there's no time to wilt. But most of all, she needs to stop being afraid of _him_.

 

"You said nobody knows about room."

 

_Right_. They're not in any map or GPS system. They're unavailable to the world. Kept far away from humanity. Her eyes drifted through the walls. _Yea_. Nobody knows about this room and it's horror. To the outside world, it's probably just an innocent and harmless musty, old garden shed. They'd definitely be in for a surprise once they come to find out.

 

_Derek, can you hear me?_

 

Another worthless attempt in trying to get the hell out of here - trying, she's always just trying. Trying never really hurts. She doesn't know why she does this - trying to communicate with Derek, because, essentially, she's just conversing with herself in her own head.

 

_I'm really tired, Derek. Please take me home. I don't know if I can take this anymore._

 

Maybe she just likes the idea of talking to him.

 

"Outside has everything, you said. Like pets and dogs and baseball and computer and boats and islands and buildings and skyscrapers and elevators. I have to remember that they are all real for real. And people too, Ma. Doctors and nurses and police officers and sports people and teachers and actors. And all sorts. They're all in the outside and I'm not there. Me and you, Ma. We're the only ones not there. So, are we still real for real?"

 

Wiping away tears, she looked at Christopher through the slats that divided them and gave him a reassuring smile. She's more than ecstatic that he's finally on the first step to understand the outside world. Of course, there's a lot that he still needs to grasp but that's okay because she'll explain everything to him. Every last detail of this fucked up situation. She will tell him but just not right now because _he'll_ be here any second now. "Oh, baby, I wish I could explain it all to you right now, but it's too late. _He's_ coming and I want you asleep when _he's_ here. Ok?"

 

"Ok, Ma. Tomorrow?"

 

He's apparently too tired to protest, which she knows he would if he wasn't, and so she gave him a flying kiss.

 

"Now, close your eyes, sweetie. I'll tell you everything tomorrow. I promise." she said softly and she can see just enough as he nodded and curled to his side, hugging his blanket tighter.

 

_He's_ late today. It's almost ten and she's sleep deprived. She had turned on the television to drown out the eerie silence because it's just too awfully quiet, scary even, and she sat on the couch with her legs fastened tightly to her chest, waiting and staring at the screen. It's a rerun of a show she can't, for the life of her, recall its name but it's about two brothers in a quest of hunting demons, ghosts, monsters, and other unrealistic creature stuffs.

 

_Why?_

 

She doesn't know.

 

But it pegs the question of why anyone does anything.

 

_For example, why did he kidnap her?_

 

She don't think she wants to know why.

 

_Why did she cheat on Derek?_

 

She thinks she knows why.

 

_Derek, please don't give up on me. Please, Derek. I'm here and alive. And I love you._

 

It's probably the sleep talking or the fact that she's basically desperate but she believes that they can still work them out.

 

He has to give her a chance to show him how sorry she is.

 

They're Addison and Derek after all. They don't quit.

 

Yawning, she was just about to crawl herself into bed when the infamous _beep beep_ sounded and immediately she snapped out of her sleep-deprived self, adrenaline taking its usually course.

 

After the door had slammed shut with a resounding thud, she turned around, giving _him_ a kiss - like instructed - then, lifted the groceries over to the kitchen. They're in dire need for these groceries because _he_ didn't come bearing them last week and it took everything in her to not shout and flip out at _him_.

 

_Calm down, Addison. You have to relax. It's okay. You just have to lessen your portions from now on._

 

They already weren't eating enough.

 

She was just so angry but she kept that anger inside because she can't ever let it out.

 

"Where are the vitamins?" she questioned, taking a deep breath before glancing up at _him_. They need their nutritional supplements in the form of pills because God knows they're not getting any.

 

_He's_ by the other side, sitting on the edge of the bathtub, watching her.

 

_Why the hell is he always watching her?_

 

Pushing _himself_ off the tub, "I decided you guys don't need them anymore. Pharma's making billions of dollars out of shit. It's a giant rip-off." _he_ said.

 

"I'm the doctor here. I know what's best for us. You want us to get sick?"

 

"Oh, here we go again. Whine, whine, whine, yapping, yapping, yapping, that's all you fucking do all day."

 

"It's just that if we had a better diet, I wouldn't need to whine all fucking day." she said bitterly.

 

_He_ narrowed _his_ eyes at her and for a brief moment, they just stare at each other, breathing heavily. _He's_ most likely contemplating on what _he's_ going to do with her now - beat her, slap her, throw her around like a ragged doll. And she, she's thinking back to when Derek and her were at this exact predicament. Not the whole imprisonment thing but the whole eyes locked at each other, nostrils flaring, barely a feet apart shebang.

 

Blinking, she stepped back and began pulling the contents out of the paper bag again and into appropriate cabinets with heavy contempt.

 

She has to stay far away from _him._ She has to get out of here. She can't keep breathing this stale oxygen. She detests _him_. She hates it here. She's vibrating in hatred.

 

Of course _he_ doesn't know this but she's cursing at _him_ and saying every foul word she knows in her head. She absolutely wishes she could scream them all at the top of her lungs.

 

"I bet we're cheaper to keep than a dog. We don't even need shoes." she spat, folding her shaking hands around her torso to hide its evident quivers.

 

She wonders if her shoes are still in their bedroom closet or perhaps Derek had donated all of them to Goodwill.

 

It's okay, she guess, what good will it do to wilt away in their closet.

 

"You have no idea about the world of today. I mean, where do you think the money's going to keep coming from?" _he_ sighed heavily, brushing _his_ hand through _his_ hair.

 

It's quiet now and she scattered forward, facing _him_. For a while, none of them said anything to each other. "What? What do you mean? Money in general or...?" she finally voiced.

 

"Six months." _His_ arms were folded. They're huge, she must add. Like they belonged to a giant. "Six months I've been laid off and have you had to worry your pretty little head?"

 

_And whose fault is that?_

 

_What does he want from her?_

 

_Sympathy? Understanding?_

 

There's no way in hell she's ever going to grant _him_ that because she was perfect before this and she never gave _him_ this super bright idea. She's more than furious with _him_ now for putting them in this position.

 

"What happened?"

 

For a second, she contemplated giving _him_ the PIN to her bank accounts. Maybe the bank would call Derek or the cops for 'suspicious activity' and the cops could do their cop thing and they'll find them and get them out of here.

 

_He's not that stupid, Addison._

 

_He's_ been keeping her locked up for seven years and there must be a fundamental reason that _he_ could evade from the police and just make it seem like she had disappeared without a trace.

 

_He's a fucking psychopath._

 

"Like it matters."

 

"Are you looking for another job?"

 

Silence.

 

For a moment longer than she should, she stared into _his_ soulless eyes, thinking of all the nasty things _he's_ done to her. Swallowing hard, she quickly turned away and trained her eyes over the kitchen table, lining the rest of the goods in a neat line.

 

She likes that, neat.

 

_How did she get into this quagmire?_

 

Since the day she was born, she was told that she'd never have to worry about finances and money and anything related to expenses because they're very much well off and she has a trust fund. All she had to do is complete her education and while she's at that, get good grades too.

 

And she did. She did everything right and as she was told. Everything was given to her on a silver platter. But now, here she is, thirty-five years later, worrying about how they're going to survive without any means of income.

 

"Are you in debt?" she asked, "How are you going to-"

 

_-Support us?_

 

"Shut your mouth." _he_ spat and _his_ tone was a warning one, that she had chose to ignore in countless occasions. But maybe she shouldn't because it just always ends badly for her.

 

"I need to know this! I need to know-"

 

She didn't see it coming but she definitely felt the hot sting vibrating through the muscles of her cheek, saw stars exploding right before her, the thunder clasp of skin against skin and the crackles of her neck echoed loudly with her hair wiping violently across her face.

 

A tonne of bricks had connected with her cheek - that's going to bruise badly - but she didn't stumble at all, still glued and grounded and she's grateful for that.

 

Nausea threatened her when a soft cry waved from the cupboard. It's Christopher and he's clearly terribly terrified. He must have woken up by their loud shrieks. And it's breaking her heart because he wants his mother - needs her right now and she can't hold him tight and reassure him back to sleep because _he's_ here.

 

"Hey there, buddy." _he_ took a step, then another, then another before lightly knocking on the slats.

 

Her stomach lurched harshly.

 

"He's asleep." she made herself say and dragged her feet closer.

 

Reluctantly, her hand settled on _his_ broad shoulder and for a second, she was certain she's going to pass out because just like that she can switch back to being awfully afraid. "Just leave him. Come, let's go to bed."

 

"She keep you in there all day as well as all night?"

 

_Remember what I told you, Christopher? Do not say a word when he's here. Even when he's talking to you._

 

Silently and in her mind, she's begging Christopher.

 

"Doesn't seem right to me."

 

She think she's going to...

 

_He_ turned to her and she can hear the mock in his tone and the thumping of her heart that's now loud in her ears. "I figure there must be something wrong. You've never let me get a good look since the day he was born. Poor little freak's got two heads or something?"

 

Her back is pressed against the slats now and there's a dull ache in her head and neck from the earlier slap. "He's just shy."

 

"He's got no reason to be shy of me." _he_ said, sounding almost kind, "Never laid a hand on him. Right, Christopher?"

 

Twining her arm with _his_ , she lightly pulled _him_ towards the direction of the _bedroom_. "Let's just go to bed."

 

Her voice sounds embarrassingly strange. The desperation is there.

 

"I know what you need, missy." _he_ laughed, "Didn't your mother ever teach you manners?"

 

Her mother was all about manners and class.

 

Relief made her stomach queasy and knees liquid and _he_ slammed her onto the bed, pinning her with _his_ weight.

 

The lamp goes out, _he's_ harsher tonight.

 

* * *

**Seven Years Ago**

 

* * *

The sun is setting. _Soft_. Vibrant hues of orange-red is merging with the sky. Slowly descending, dissolving into a mauve dust.

 

It's fading away.

 

It's beautiful.

 

It's rare.

 

Because they live in Manhattan and skyscrapers aren't ideal for watching sunsets but today must be a sign.

 

A bespoke made just for her. Telling her that today will be different. _Special_. Maybe - _just_ _maybe_ \- Derek will keep his end of his word, that they will go out for dinner. As planned. Because she kept hers and switched shifts with Dr. Geller. She's doing whatever it may be to save their impending fall of a marriage.

 

She's trying. She shamelessly is. But nothing she's doing seem to be working.

 

She even called Carolyn, Derek's mother of all people, to ask how to make Belgian waffles, Chicken Pot Pie, and if she could get her recipes for his favourite foods because she doesn't just want to get any recipe off the internet since she's doing her best here.

 

"Is everything alright with you and Derek, dear?"

 

Her concern was a front. She'd love to see them fail.

 

She's trying. She's saving them. Because history is repeating itself and just like Bizzy, she'd forgotten how to wear her mask and she can't distract Derek with sex anymore since that doesn't seem to be fixing anything. _Not anymore_. So, she opt for Plan B. _Food_. A way to anyone's heart is through a good meal.

 

She hates cooking and she hardly knows how to work a stove. But she's determined to make him notice her again.

 

She's scared because Plan B is all she has left. After that - where they are headed to - is anyone's guess.

 

Her eyes are steady to the window, face aglow with the last orange rays before twilight beckons the stars. Her lips bear the semblance of a smile, just enough to show that she is enjoying this - the warmth, the _freedom_ and just the sun, itself, embracing her.

 

_Derek will be coming home tonight._

 

She's probably reading too much into nothing. But, really, hope is all she has.

 

It's just after seven and the sun has now traded places with the moon. It's just as beautiful.

 

She's all dressed and in red. It's all for him because Derek seems fond of her in red. She don't understand why because, to her, there's just too much red going on. Red hair, red dress, red lips, she could go for red heels too but she's not there yet - she's not yet crazy.

 

Bloody Mary, that's what she looks like. _Oh!_ Or maybe a bloody tampon. A walking, living, breathing, barely functioning version. But it's okay because Derek loves her in red.

 

Because only then he'll notice her.

 

More time flew by and it's almost eight now. She's waiting. Waiting, patiently or perhaps impatiently for her husband's presence to emerge through the front door and peeling at the bed of her nails.

 

She won't nag. She won't shout. She will not get mad.

 

She'll get in the car and forget.

 

Like she always does.

 

_Kind of._

 

But he could have at least called or texted or ask one of the interns to do that for him.

 

Sitting on Derek's vintage Chesterfield leather button armchair, his prized possession - a must-have as he stated on their last trip to Europe - she poured herself another tumbler of Hendrick's - it's the best of best in terms of gin if anyone is asking - and dig into her purse for her phone.

 

_Nothing._

 

She'll wait. And she is because it's now eight-forty. She've been sitting here for almost an hour.

 

Impatience turned to annoyance. Her hands clenched the blanket beneath tightly around her and her cold toes curled under her detectably.

 

_He's not coming._

 

She knew it.

 

So much for hoping. So much for signs. So much for trying.

 

She's going to drink herself to sleep now. Until she passes out. Until she's stupid drunk. Until she can't remember why she's even crying in the first place.

 

But that never happened because the door bell rang.

 

_Derek!_

 

All hurt is forgotten because he's here now.

 

She didn't even stop to think why he's ringing the doorbell and not just opening the door with his keys.

 

Power walking - more like running to the door, she flung it open with a smile that soon turned upside down.

 

" _Ouch_."

 

It's just Mark. Her friend. _Their_ friend.

 

It makes more sense if Mark lives here because he have been here, in the house she shares with her husband more nights than she could count. Crashing on the couch or in the guest bedroom, which basically is his now, having dinner with her, or watching a movie more two.

 

"Expecting someone?"

 

Derek lives here but then again, he doesn't. His name is in the property but then again, he doesn't really live here.

 

"Derek." she shrugged and beckoned him inside.

 

"Well..." he frowned, skimming up and down her length, which looks as though he's smiling at her sadly.

 

_Great! Now he's pitying her._

 

Just what she needed. _Pity._

 

"He's a fool because you look...nice. Well, really nice actually."

 

A compliment out of pity, that's just what she needs tonight. But really, she's clinging onto his words like it's the holy scripture.

 

"Thanks, Mark." she forced her lips to smile, "Make yourself at home. I'm just going get out of this ridiculous dress."

 

It's really not that ridiculous. Itchy, yes. Ridiculous, definitely not.

 

It's short, but not so that she'd be mistaken for a working girl.

 

"Hey, Red." he called out, "You're beautiful and your husband's a mad man for not noticing...anymore."

 

And he smiled, that stupid smirk that would make any lady blush.

 

It turns out, she's no different.

 

She's ridiculous because here she is, stumbling down the staircase after voiding her face of makeup and pulling on loose and worn out sweats, after spending a lot more time than she should in the bathroom, wallowing in self-pity.

 

She's the one who's ridiculous since she's watching baseball with her husband's best friend. And she doesn't even like baseball. She doesn't understand it. She doesn't understand what happened to them.

 

She thinks she's going to cry.

 

"Addison."

 

She glanced at him and he looked worriedly at her. A question lingered on his brows.

 

"You're crying."

 

Apparently, she have been and she swiped the clear stains from her cheeks.

 

"No, don't." she waved him away when he scoot closer, "It's okay. I, I just-"

 

But he didn't listen - it's no surprise that all of the men in her life doesn't listen to her - and is barely an inch away now, taking her wrist and gently drawing circles with his thumb.

 

He's looking at her while his other hand massaged her thigh.

 

_Why is he looking at her like that?_

 

"What are you doing?" she asked firmly, looking into his eyes. Quick and in one breath. She can already feel the heat he's radiating and she swallowed hard, embarrassingly.

 

Her mind is panicking. But her body is clearly responding to whatever he's doing to her.

 

"Sorry." he pulled his hands away and she almost yelped, "No," before grabbing his hand back and placing it on her thigh again. Only inching higher this time.

 

_"I like it."_

 

* * *

She isn't too sure what woke her tonight but something definitely did - a sound, a creak, a breath, that embarrassing memory that started all this, it could be anything really. Intuition probably. _Most definitely_. And when she pushed herself off the cold wall that she was basically pressed into, and when she only felt an empty space beside her, her eyes shot open to reveal the dread she've been awaiting.

 

_He's_ crouching low right in front of the cupboard, and _his_ hands were on the edges of the opened door, whispering and muttering something to her son.

 

Time slowed down - _no_ \- perhaps time stopped, halted in it's tracks while fear quickly trembled down her spine. She can't hear what _he's_ saying and that's only because she can't hear anything above the blood rushing in her ears.

 

But just as quickly, time resumed to it's normal pace.

 

"Get away from him!" she pounced out of bed like a pouncing Siberian tiger. _Quick_. All limbs flying around from here to there and she shoved _him_ away.

 

"Get away from him!"

 

_He_ looked just as surprised as she was at her new found courage.

 

Hard and with every last ounce of energy she's got, she strike at _his_ face, actually landing a blow to _his_ jaw.

 

"Get away from him!" she kept screeching over and over again. "You said you wouldn't!"

 

_Of course, he couldn't be trusted._

 

Ready for the next hit, _he_ caught her wrist in lightning speed before she could make any real contact and slammed her to a nearby wall. Knocking wind out of her chest.

 

"You said you wouldn't!"

 

"Shut up!" _his_ thick hand mangled in her hair, twisted around _his_ wrist, and forcibly yanked her head back. She gasped desperately at the pain ripping through her scalp.

 

_DEREK!_

 

Clumps of brittle hair are being pulled out, she can feel it.

 

_She doesn't care._

 

"I trusted you! You promised! You said you wouldn't!"

 

_He's_ screaming at her to fucking shut up and she's screaming at him because _he_ had promised her _he'd_ leave Christopher alone.

 

She've given herself to _him_ \- she kept her end of their deal.

 

"I've been too generous with, missy. I let you run this place like it's yours. I shoulda known you'd be exploiting a hardworking fella like me. You don't get to pay no bills. You don't gotta work. And all I ask is for you to shut the fuck up."

 

Both of _his_ hands are on her throat now and she cried out loudly, choking, fearful, when she can't feel the cold cement on her soles anymore.

 

"Stop that noise."

 

Scratching and clawing and pulling at _his_ arm, she struggled to get a breath in, struggled to touch the ground with her feet, struggled to not slip into a deep slumber. "Stop...I can't breathe...Please..." she choked.

 

_DEREK! DEREK!_

 

Letting go of the hold on her neck, "You're a nut case, you know that?" _he_ roughly poked a finger to her temple and she breathed desperately. Choking on air as she tried to hog most of it into her feeble lungs.

 

It doesn't seem to be enough.

 

"I can be quiet." she whispered painfully. "You know how quiet I can be so long as you leave him alone. It's all I've ever asked."

 

"You ask for shit every time I open the door."

 

Hacking, "It's all for Christopher." she's still forcing air into her lungs, rubbing the redden skin on her neck.

 

"Yeah, well, don't forget where you got him."

 

He doesn't stay.

 

_Beep beep._

 

And she disappeared under the covers. Possibly forever, if she had life her way.

 

* * *

Unease. Unsettling. Unjustified.

 

It's an unprecedented and uncomfortable accord that he's feeling. _Unapt_. It's a pulling of the chest - heavy and seizing his every air supply. It's a stomach churning ache somewhere in his body - he can't exactly pinpoint where. _Probably his heart._ It's contagious, at least he'd like to believe it is. And that is the reason why he's here, in his office, in the middle of the night, going through all of his patient's negatives - oh, how Addison would love to mock him for using that word - for the third time, fourth time, fifth, sixth - he doesn't know because ultimately, he had lost count hours and hours ago.

 

He doesn't care because he's not actually studying the tedious files intently. He can't get himself to concentrate even if he really wanted to.

 

He's preoccupied and he feels awful for treating Meredith with the same neglect that he did with his wife. But it just doesn't feel right to lay down next to her and be pensive of a whole other woman.

 

This time, the only difference is the _what_ he's preoccupied with.

 

For Addison, it was his career, his job, his goals and ambitions. And with Meredith, it's Addison that's distracting him.

 

But, here he is, Head of Neurosurgery - goals achieved. _Well, halfway there since he'd very much like to be Chief of Surgery_. And he's still where all the problems began.

 

Maybe it was all his fault all along.

 

He doesn't want to loose Meredith too.

 

He has lost enough.

 

A completely different woman and he misses her. Sometimes, he'd find himself thinking about her, remembering her bright smile and red hair. He doesn't ever want to forget.

 

He's afraid of that - forgetting. Losing memory of how she sounds, of her gentle touch and the long fingers that would tease him mercilessly, of her playful laugh and the snort that she emits when she does.

 

She hates it but he thinks it's cute.

 

He wants to tell her that he has forgiven her.

 

_He's not mad._

 

"I can't be angry with you anymore, Addie." Looking out the small window, he can see a star twinkle amongst the others. _That's_ _Addison_. She's bright and shiny. Always wanting to standout. Always the one with her arm raised in class. Always craving for approval. Always wanting to be noticed.

 

He wishes she doesn't believe that he still is mad.

 

He was.

 

_Of course, he was._ He had caught her in bed with Mark.

 

Mark of all people.

 

Now, seven years later, it's a pointless anger because it took her to _disappear without a trace_ \- he prefers that term instead of what everyone else is using, _dead_ , he'll only believe that she is in fact dead when there's a body, her body to corroborate that theory - for him to realise that he doesn't want to lose her, that he actually needs her in this world.

 

He wants to tell her that he has forgiven her because he knows now; what she did with Mark was out of desperation. It wasn't the reason for the catalyst of their fail marriage. It may very well be the cherry on top but it wasn't the cause.

 

He's equally to responsible.

 

Wherever she is, he wants her to know that they're okay. Wherever she may be.

 

But really, it's been seven years with no traces or leads or sightings, statistics says it's unlikely.

 

_She's dead._

 

He's a man who has been true to statistics all his life, he just hopes statistics is very wrong this time around.

 

"I'm really sorry, Addison." he said softly, taking his reading glasses off and rubbing the bridge of his nose, rubbing tears away.

 

It's all really unfair for Meredith. He feels disgusting, like he's cheating on her. And essentially, he kind of is, with a woman that doesn't exist anymore. She doesn't know any of this. It's his secret.

 

She didn't need to know and he needed a fresh start.

 

But he loves her too.

 

He loves Meredith.

 

He needs a complicated distraction because this feeling that he's currently feeling is leaving him breathless.

 

"Niklaus Mikaelson, 36, presented with a rare spinal subependymoma manifesting as progressive weakness of his right lower extremity over an 8-month period. MRI showed diffuse enlargement of the spinal cord from T-2 to T-7. A laparotomy is needed to remove the tumor." he said.

 

Subependymomas are surgically curable tumors, so if the tumor is well demarcated, the mass can be totally removed.

 

He can't do this. Grunting, he pulled at his hair. It's Addison's favourite part of him. His hair.

 

_Goodness! Addison is everywhere today._ _Why?_

 

He needs to know.

 

Even his patient's files aren't fulfilling his need of a distraction.

 

_What's wrong with him tonight?_

 

He felt fine all day.

 

_What's this feeling?_

 

He's got a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach and so he grabbed his phone and dialled a number he never thought he'd have to dial ever again.

 

After a few rings, the uncannily familiar voice echoed, "Detective Beckett."

 

It's been years since he left New York and he's not certain if she still remembers him.

 

"Detective Beckett, umm, this is Dr. Shepherd. Derek, I mean. I don't know if you still-"

 

"Yes, I remember." she interrupted, "What can I do for you, doctor?"

 

He don't know. He don't even know what he's hoping for with this phone call.

 

"I was wondering if you got any more leads on my wife's disappearance."

 

Silence.

 

_Disappearance_. He's using that word loosely because truly, it can mean anything.

 

He'd rather that she be missing than dead because a world without Addison is a world he wouldn't want to be in.

 

"Your wife's case has been handed over to the Cold Case Unit ... It's been seven years, Dr. Shepherd."

 

She's saying that like it should mean something. _Seven years_. They're not mutually exclusive. _Seven years._ That doesn't mean she's dead.

 

The cops have already given up in her.

 

He's trying - he have tried to look for her. He had hired a private investigator. He even assisted on field searches to look for her body. He even worked with Mark to find her.

 

"... I'm so sorry, Dr. Shepherd. But the likelihood of-"

 

He knows.

 

He doesn't want to hear it all over again and so, he hang up.

 

* * *

I open my eyes and I'm still in cupboard. Ma didn't come get me. I think maybe she is still sleeping. I hear all yesterday night. All loud banging and roaring and Ma sounded so weird. Crying. _He_ was hurting Ma and I didn't help because Ma always says to never go out of cupboard when _he_ is in room, even if _he_ is hitting her. But I was so scared also. I don't even think I can help.

 

Yeah, _he_ is called _he_. Sometimes, _him_ or _his_. I don't know _his_ name. Ma never told me. She says it's not important, but I think she don't even know what _he_ is called.

 

Ma should ask _him_ , so we can call _him his_ name, like Ma calls me Christopher because that is my name and I call Ma Ma because Ma is her name. _He, him, his_ is confusing sometimes.

 

I really wonder what _his_ name is. Maybe _he_ has no name, that's why. Maybe _he_ is not real for real. Maybe it's because _he's_ a ghost, like Casper the Friendly Ghost. But _he_ is not friendly, so I don't know.

 

Ma hates _him_. She's scared of _him_ , I think. She doesn't like talking about _him_ and she always shouts at me when I do.

 

_Stop it, Christopher!_

 

_I don't like talking about him!_

 

_Would you just drop it already!_

 

When Ma shouts, she is scary and sometimes, I hide and sometimes, I cry because Ma can get real mean when she's angry. But I always forgive Ma because she is my Ma.

 

Today is one of those days when Ma won't wake up properly. She's here but not really. She stays in bed with the pillow on her head. I'm scared maybe she is ... So, I hurry to climb up onto bed and go up really close and listen till I hear her breathe. I whisper really softly. "Ma, are you wake?"

 

I'm just one inch away, my hair touched Ma's nose and Ma moved a little further to wall and made a soft sound.

 

I now can see red and purple dirty on her neck and wrist and cheek. I rub the one on her neck and Ma went jumping a little, hissing like an angry snake.

 

"Christopher...don't -" her voice is higher now. Maybe she is crying.

 

"Sorry." I kiss Ma like she does when I am sad. _Three kisses_. Forehead, nose and lips. But I can't because pillow is covering Ma's face, so I just kiss Ma's hair softly three times.

 

Ma's hair is red and mine is not. I don't know why. If I come from Ma, then why my hair is not red. Mine is brown.

 

But my eyes are like Ma's.

 

Jumping down of bed is fun. I pretend I am Superman and soaring through the clouds. _Whoosh!_ Ma doesn't want me jumping because I might break a something in room or my bone. _Ouch!_ But Ma is in bed now. She can't say anything.

 

I eat my cereals slowly, one square at a time, so I won't get hungry fast. Cereals, I don't really like. Just a bit. I like eggs and toast but I don't know how the stove works. Ma says to never touch the stove because it can burn me.

 

It burn Ma once. _Bad stove!_ It made her skin all red with bubbles that had water in them and her skin was peeling. It was disgusting.

 

I stand on my chair to wash the bowl and spoon. It's very quiet when I switch off the water.

 

I think he put the marks on Ma yesterday night.

 

Maybe he squished her neck.

 

I don't have a bath today, I just get dressed. Ma and I bath together so we can save water.

 

There's hours and hours, hundreds of them. And I don't know what to do now. I can't do math because Ma is not here. Ma likes math. And I like it too.

 

Maybe I should do some jogging. From this wall to that wall. I run and I pretend Ma is next to me. I tell Ma she is so slow. _Slowpoke!_ Ma doesn't answer because she is not really next to me. Just pretend.

 

Ma is actually really really fast. Her legs are so long and I can never catch up to her. Sometimes I can but I know she is only letting me beat her.

 

I'm really tired now and I try to breathe. Ma gets up to pee, no talking with her face all blank and her eyes all red. I put a glass of water and crackers beside bed but she just gets back under blanket with her orange painkiller bottle.

 

I hate when Ma's like this. It makes me so sad. But I like that I get to watch TV all day because Ma normally doesn't like that. I put it on really quiet at first and make it a bit louder at a time. Too much TV might turn me stupid like _him_ or into a zombie but Ma's like a zombie today and she's not even watching TV.

 

There's Bob the Builder and Spongebob Squarepants, Ma's favourite. Maybe I should tell her it's on. Maybe she will get out of bed.

 

No. I don't think Ma would want to today.

 

Barney and Friends do hugs and Barney is now telling me to hug my friends but Barney don't know I can't today. Ma is not feeling well.

 

_How can TV pictures be of real things?_

 

Ma says they are all real for real. I don't understand how.

 

I think about them all floating around in the outside. You know, Ma said there are people and things outside of this walls and I don't understand that. Ma said the bald moustache doctor who gives advice to people is real for real. But not SpongeBob or Bob the Builder because they are only drawings, coming to life for TV.

 

_It's so confusing._

 

The cars and the police and the airplane and all the hes and shes and the doctors and their patients, all are floating past skylight. There are skyscrapers as well and cows and ships and trucks, it's all crammed out there. I counted all the stuff that might crash into room. _Oh my god!_ It's all so scary.

 

I go really close to Ma again and whisper wake up but she doesn't.

 

Ma is still breathing. And that's good.

 

Ma will be back tomorrow, I tell myself.

 

* * *

Stepping into the clean, sterile operating room, he greeted the doctors and personnel with a simple good evening ( _it's not a good evening because the dread in the pit of his stomach is still very much present._ ) while the surgical technician fitted him into latex gloves and tied the light blue surgical gown around his waist. He thanked them for their assistance because he's not the Great God of Neurosurgery, he's just an ordinary human being. It's the polite thing to do. And besides, the surgical technicians are always under appreciated.

 

It's just another standard, straightforward and routine aneurysm clipping to prevent the swelling from rupturing.

 

_Textbook surgery._

 

It's something he's done a billion times before - nothing new or interesting.

 

He'd like to think he could do this procedure with his eyes close.

 

_Cut. Suture. And close._

 

No messy emotions in between.

 

He'd really like to distance himself from this irk that's been eating away at him since last night. He's been ignoring it all day but she's still there, she or something that's making him think of Addison is here, poking relentlessly at him to notice her.

 

_Cut. Suture. And close._

 

Ok, not so literal

 

It's more like; cut, drill, saw, cut, clip, suture and then, close.

 

It's basically more or less just like that.

 

Everyone else is already ready. _Scrubbed. Sterile. Sanitised._ He can feel all of their knowing gaze on him, more than a dozen pair of eyes were waiting, waiting for him to say those words. It's luck, practice, fortune. Maybe magic, even. Because every surgeon has that one thing that they do right before their first cut and his is his words of wisdom.

 

"On your count, Dr. Shepherd."

 

_It's a beautiful day to save lives._

 

They're all waiting for that.

 

But today is not a beautiful day.

 

"Ten blade." he held out his latex covered hand and he can almost feel the atmosphere shift. _Almost_. The scrub technician was hesitant at first but she handed him the scalpel.

 

It's just mindless superstitions anyway. It's not like his patient's life solely rests on the hands of those words.

 

It's simply just a meaningless quote.

 

Looking up at the gallery, it's Meredith that he sees and she nodded at him with a thin smile. Meredith - she's different, very different than Addison in someways.

 

_Humble. Patient. Young._

 

Different but also similar one way or another.

 

He doesn't know what he's rambling about in his head. He isn't too sure of anything today and so he made the first incision, behind the hairline.

 

_Her outfits are impeccable._

 

No - were.

 

Her outfits _were_ impeccable. Impeccable, pretentious, and classy, just like her.

 

Sweet like vanilla or sometimes even like flowers. Chanel No. 5, he absolutely misses that scent. He even went as far as gifting Meredith with that bottle for Christmas just to smell it again. She liked it, she said she really did. But he never smelt that floral-citrus scent on her. And when he nonchalantly asked her about it, she apologised for not wearing it because that scent wasn't her liking.

 

He should've known that not everyone shares the same taste.

 

It's a memory that he's reminiscing right now.

 

Blue. Big smiles - grinning from ear to ear. Perfect white shiny enamels. Arm in arm in arm. All three of them.

 

_Well, technically the four of them._

 

The fourth being Mark's girlfriend-of-the-month/date to their Graduation Dinner. She was practically glued to him the entire night and no matter how hard they all tried to unglue her off of him, she melded back to him even stronger.

 

Addison thought she was annoying since she was a talker. She wasn't like them - doctors. She was a ... he doesn't even know and he don't think he ever even knew what she does for a living. And he hasn't got the slightest idea what her name was because he gave up knowing the names of Mark's conquests a long time ago.

 

Well, he knows one, remembers her name like it's half of who he is. He knows one because she never was suppose to be one of his conquests.

 

Needless to say, they didn't even get to take a decent picture of just the three of them without Mark's date inserting herself, in the literal sense, into every picture.

 

_A psycho._ Mark has always had a taste for the crazies.

 

The skin and muscles are now lifted off the bone and folded back, allowing him to make four burr holes in the skull with a drill to expose the brain and meninges.

 

She wore midnight blue that night at the dinner. Low-cut with a slit along the side that made her legs look even longer. He can still remember the itchy feel of the rough sequins that was embedded in the dress as it scrapped at his palms, overlapping one tiny sequin over the other that really looked more like fish scales than anything else. But she looked beautiful in midnight blue, in that dress that scintillated their reflection across the room.

 

It was a night of laughter. A night void of pressure and stress. A night to celebrate their success and the fact that they had survived. A night to commemorate their four years of continuous studying, staring at tongue twisters, memorising hair-jarring words. It was one night out of a lifetime of forever sleepless nights.

 

She again wore midnight blue at Savvy's wedding. A bridesmaid, of course. She was only his girlfriend, then. He quickly realised that ruby red wasn't his only favourite colour on her. And something within him, in that joyous day for their dearest friends, came to the conclusion that he'd love to see her in white too.

 

He had shared that very conclusion with Mark that day. He's now nauseous all over again.

 

And she looked even better in white.

 

_Phenomenal, actually._

 

It's a smooth entry to the sylvian fissure.

 

See, he doesn't need fallacies to do his job right. _He's a good surgeon._ He has this all under control.

 

So, when he brushed past her at the doors that day on her last surgery, he never ever thought it'd be her last, covered in midnight blue scrubs, there was nothing, he realised and that shocked him. No spark, the flame doused, the power cut and she parted her lips and he can see her forming the beginnings of a _sorry_ because she always was that; sorry, even when it's all his fault. Only this time, she's not sorry, and neither is he.

 

He's sure, even then, he was in total oblivion as to what they were in cahoots about.

 

_Were they even arguing that day? Or perhaps just mad at each other because that has become the norm._

 

He remembered that they made plans to go out to dinner. Obviously that night ended so so terribly wrong for the both of them.

 

He had fallen asleep at an on-call room, telling himself that he'll just rest his eyes for half an hour. But half an hour turned to two and he rushed home in a frenzy because he knows Addison and she must be livid and was probably halfway to Canada by now.

 

What went down that night is history. And he never saw her again.

 

_Why were they always arguing?_

 

He's smiling as he added a temporary clip on the A2 ACA distal and he doesn't even know why because the memory he's recalling isn't even a pleasant one.

 

Luckily the surgical mask is masking what can only look as though he's going insane.

 

Now, with the aneurysm neck exposed, he placed another clip.

 

Suddenly it's become crucial to recall what her last surgery was and he's now wrecking his brain to retrieve that knowledge.

 

_A birth or five perhaps? C-sections? Hysterectomy? Ligation?_

 

They've always looked for each other's names on the boards.

 

_A. Shepherd_

 

_D. Shepherd_

 

And he found himself looking for her name even after.

 

He vaguely recalls her telling him that she was picked to assist on a TTTS case. It surely would've been a great opportunity for her. She've always talked about wanting to specialise in maternal and fetal medicine.

 

She would've been on the top. She would've been the best of the best. She would've surpassed all expectations.

 

It's sad because she just ran out of time.

 

A continuous screeching noise resonated somewhere and he just can't seem to stop it.

 

He's still calm. Maybe even too calm, to be honest. But in a pivotal situation like this - his patient coding on his table - collectivity is key.

 

He's trying, he really is trying to stop the blood from gushing everywhere but really, it's pointless now as the nurse read him the BP.

 

He had ruptured the aneurysm during the remodelling.

 

_8:56pm_

 

Time of Death.

 

Now it seems like a great idea to have said those words.

 

_It's a beautiful day to save lives._

 

_Why couldn't he have said it?_

 

_What's the harm?_

 

It's simple. Nine syllables. Seven words.

 

He's walking away like he does best, defeated. It's actually the best way to deal with difficulties. Like he did when he walked in on his wife and best friend, in the throes.

 

He opened the door to their bedroom and saw what he wish he hadn't, then walked away.

 

_But really, what could he have done?_

 

They were both naked and he couldn't stand to look at Addison.

 

He squinted into bright lights at the pit and then stopped, his chest tightening when he saw uniformed officers and two in suits looking his way.

 

They're not looking at him but at his direction.

 

He's taken back to New York again, seven years younger.

 

Scrubbing in and in the middle of cleaning subungual areas with a nail file, his Chief and two detectives in suits barged in unannounced.

 

In all truths, he was actually waiting for that to happen because it's always the spouse that's the first suspect. _Always_. And he knew that.

 

And somehow, the cops just really wanted him to be it, the man who obliterated his wife's existence off the face of this earth. And he can't really blame them for concluding that because he had motive to want his wife dead and he was the last person who had seen her.

 

"I'm sorry, Derek. I tried." Chief had apologised sincerely.

 

He didn't utter a word when they told him to put his hands behind his back or even when he was roughly pushed out of the scrub room with handcuffs that were very purposefully fastened too tight.

 

"Derek Shepherd, you're under arrest for the murder of Dr. Addison Shepherd. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney ..."

 

* * *

I read the five books all by myself and only bits of The Tale of Peter Rabbit, I'll wait for Ma to read it to me. Mostly, I just sit and tell myself that Ma will be back tomorrow.

 

I think of drawing but I don't feel like it now. Maybe I can draw Ma in hospital with her friend, Addison. But I don't even know what Addison look like or her hair colour. I'll have to ask Ma tomorrow.

 

So many questions are in my head, I don't think I can remember all.

 

I want to wake Ma up and ask about outside with the actual humans and the many things all zooming around.

 

I wasn't believing her before and Ma got mad because I wasn't listening and wouldn't let her talk.

 

_Ma, I believe you now. Please wake up._

 

I want to shake Ma but I'm scared Ma might be angry if I do that. Or maybe she will not switch on at all even if I shake her because he squashed her neck so hard. I go up very close again. Ma's arm is covering her eyes. The marks are all red and purple and bright. It look so scary and painful.

 

I think I can see _his_ big fingers on Ma's neck.

 

I hate _him_ too.

 

I'm going to kick _him_ till I break _his_ butt. I'm going to help Ma when _he_ comes back later. I'll kick _him_ and kick _him_ until I break _him_ , like _he_ broke Ma. I'll zap stupid door open with TV remote and whiz into outside and get everything at the real stores and bring it back to Ma.

 

I cry a bit but with no sound.

 

I watch a show of weather and one of police detectives finding the bad guy so they can bring him to jail for killing the good guy.

 

_So, are policemen real for real?_

 

_Are they floating outside?_

 

I nibble my fingers, Ma can't tell me about germs.

 

Germs can make you dead but I'm not, so I guess Ma is lying.

 

I wonder how much of my brain is gooey now and how much is still ok.

 

_Have I turned to zombie already?_

 

Ma's never like this for more than one day. I don't know what I will do if I wake up tomorrow and she's still like this.

 

_What if she's sad like this again tomorrow?_

 

Then, I'm hungry again. I have a banana even though it's a bit green. Ma haven't eaten all day. Her water and crackers are still beside bed. I worry about Ma because she's always not hungry. She says she's not hungry but I know she is because I can hear her tummy.

 

I'm always hungry and she's always giving me her food to eat. I tell her no but she tells me not to waste food. Maybe she doesn't like the food she cooks but they're always so yummy.

 

Ma should eat so she can be healthy and strong like me. But I don't know why she's not eating.

 

Sometimes I like poking the bones on her shoulders because it's always sticking out.

 

_Go back inside, bones. You're hurting Ma._

 

When Ma stands, she's so long. I don't think I can ever be as long as her.

 

Dora is in TV now. She's finding her way to the castle. Yea, she's my real friend too. She's pretty like Ma. She's real for real, Ma said, but only cartoon real.

 

It's confusing.

 

Superman is cartoon real but there is a real man who plays him on TV. Trees are real in TV and in outside too.

 

Skateboards and cars and so are girls and boys, they're all real for real.

 

_How can they be real when they're so flat?_

 

I don't know. I'm still trying to understand.

 

When _he_ comes again, Ma and me could make a barricade. We could shove bed against the door so it doesn't open.

 

Won't _he_ get a surprise!

 

I'm laughing now.

 

"Let me in," he will shout, "or I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your house down."

 

Stupid _he_!

 

Grass is only in TV and so is fire, but fire could come in room for real if I push the stove button and red jumps onto my sleeve and burns me up.

 

I'd like to see that but not it to happen to me.

 

Air is real and water is real for real only in bath and sink. Rivers and lakes and oceans are only in TV. Because if rivers, lakes and oceans just whizz around in outside, wouldn't it would make everything wet?

 

I don't know.

 

I want to shake Ma and ask her if ocean is real.

 

Room is really real, but maybe it's got a cloak of invisibility on like Harry from Harry Potter and nobody knows we're here.

 

I want to be in bed with Ma. Instead I lay on rug, making snow angels like I saw on A Christmas Carol. Ma makes me watch that on Christmas Day. I don't really like it but Ma does and it makes her smile, so, I guess, it's okay.

 

I do snow angels hundreds of times until my arms and legs ache.

 

When it's dark, I try and eat more baked beans that I had before but they're disgusting now. Mushy and gooey. Maybe that's what my brain looks like. _Yuck_. I have some bread and peanut butter instead. I'm looking for the jar of jelly but I can't find it anywhere. I think we finished it all already.

 

I'll remind Ma to ask for some for next week's grocery shopping.

 

I open freezer and put my face on the bags of peas and spinach and yucky green beans, I keep it there till I'm numb. Even my eyelids. Then, I jump out, shut the door and rub my cheeks to warm them up.

 

I still can't feel my face, it's all cold and numb. I like the feeling.

 

Looking up, it's really dark in skylight now. Maybe moon is here today. I don't know. I can't see him showing his big shiny face tonight. Maybe clouds are covering moon.

 

I get into my sleep t-shirt. Right arm into right sleeve, left arm into left sleeve. I wonder if I'm dirty because I didn't have a bath today. I try to smell myself, I think I smell okay.

 

Ma didn't get up all day and she didn't have a bath too. But Ma always smells nice, sweet like flowers.

 

In cupboard, I lie down with blanket tight around me but I'm still so cold. _Oops!_ I forgot to up the thermostat today. That's why it's cold! I only just remembered. _Silly me!_ But I can't do it now. It's night.

 

I want to sleep with Ma tonight but I'm scared that _he_ might come tonight.

 

_What if I'm in bed with Ma and he comes?_

 

I don't know if it's nine yet, it's too dark for seeing watch. But I tiptoe into bed extra slow so Ma won't notice. I'll just lie near Ma. If I hear the _beep beep_ then, I can jump back to cupboard real quick.

 

_What if he comes and Ma won't wake up, will he be madder?_

 

_Will he make worse marks on Ma?_

 

_What if Ma can't protect me?_

 

I stay wide awake so I can hear _him_ come and kick _his_ butt when _he_ hit Ma again.

 

_He_ doesn't come but I still stay awake.

 

Ma is wake now. I can hear the orange bottle rattling, she's taking another painkiller.

 

Sometimes I think Ma eats too much of that and not real real food. If Ma stops eating those pills, maybe Ma will be hungry then. Ma says she needs it or she'll be sick. But Ma is still sick when she eats it. So, maybe she should just stop eating it.

 

"Ma." I whisper in her ear, "Are you hungry?"

 

Ma's face is buried in pillow and she just shake her head, "No, baby...I-" her voice crack and I know she is crying again. She doesn't let me see her tears but I know she is crying. So, I hug her middle tight and tell Ma that I love her so so much.

 

She doesn't tell me back because she's crying but it's okay because I already know she loves me very much.

 

It's so many hours now and Ma is making sounds which means she is sleeping. I can't sleep because I want to ask Ma why _he_ said don't forget where she got me.

 

_Don't I come from Ma?_


	5. 2,575 days. . .

** Chapter 5 - 2,575 days **

_2,575 days. . ._

At first, it was once every five agonising days. And those days were long drawn-out. Unnecessarily so, because she was too frightened to even try anymore.

Torturous, tormenting, traumatic. A lingering peace in the air that cradled her close. Waiting to envelop her.

But science had told her three to four days, without taking into account the external and internal factors. Just roughly, just around, just approximately seventy-two to ninety-six hours.

 

_Three to fours days._

 

A human can go for more than three weeks without food, but water is a different story. Because at least sixty percent of the adult body is made of water and every living cell in the body needs it to keep functioning.

 

She counted.

 

On the first day, she'd be angry. She'd be cranky. She'd be irritable. She cries when she's past breaking point, when she's so utterly frustrated - a miserable trait of hers since she's hardly ever _not_ frustration. She'd scream inside. Inside because she was still conserving energy, after all. She was still surviving. Of course, headaches, cramps, fatigue followed through.

 

On the third day, that's when the uncanny started to present itself. Cognitive functioning - zero. She don't think she was aware of anything on the third day and the two days that followed. She'd always forget what hunger and thirst feels like. And that's partly because she'd be so tired that keeping her eyelids open was a pointless distraction. Using the _'bathroom'_ was non-existent because there wouldn't be anything for her body to flush and rid of.

 

_Are her kidneys already failing?_

 

_Will her heart stop today?_

 

_Has her brain shrunk?_

 

The brain is three quarters water after all.

 

She'd think to herself, _is_ _today it?_

 

The fifth day was always the fucking hardest. _Always_. The anticipation, the excitement, perhaps, was what she couldn't get herself to control. The knowing that she'll see _him_ soon - not _him_ , water and food. She'd salivate embarrassingly while her stomach growl loudly and squirm painfully, waiting for _him_ to return.

 

She waited patiently.

 

Never taking more than ten steps because she was basically hibernate. She didn't need to burn any more calories, especially when there's none left to burn.

 

Then, she waited impatiently.

 

But she's not sure what she was waiting for, really. Maybe death. Perhaps a mirage of food and water. Maybe even for _him_.

 

She'd dream about Carolyn's dessert. A specific dessert. She can still see it so clearly. _Yes, that was her favourite_. Only she had forgotten what it's called and couldn't wreck her brain to recall since that constitutes to using what was left of her exuberance.

 

It was a wild array of textures, she knows that for sure. The shattering, airy crunch of meringue at the edges, and the softer one of toasted almonds, with rolling bubbles and pockets skittering across the surface. They're more relaxed than a Florentine, more lightweight than a brittle. And they're altogether really lovely over a cup of coffee with an old friend.

 

_Her old self._

 

Oh, yes, she'd love to have coffee with _old-Addison_ and smack some sense into her and tell her to quit whining, stop complaining because she's not the first wife who's been neglected by their husband - her life is A-OK, better than okay, that she and her husband will work it out somehow, eventually or maybe they won't. But all they had to do was communicate with patience, because heaven knows they weren't doing that at all. That if the other has throw in the towel - she's not pointing fingers - the other has to pick it back up and say no. Maybe even scream it so he'll notice her. They made a vow and she still intend to keep it.

 

But that's just thoughts and wishes now.

 

_It's okay. You'll just have to wait a little longer_. _He's coming tonight._

 

Her mouth would water; she'd tell herself - she's good, she's okay. Just a few more days, hours, that _this_ was just like two years ago. Only it wasn't because two years ago, she was in control.

 

She'd fight harder. She'd pray harder for today not to be it because she had made it this far and all her hardwork can't be in vain - it can't be for nothing.

 

Yes, she tried. And that was her punishment for trying to escape.

 

She tried the other escape too, but the only problem was that, she'd just always _always_ make it to the fifth day. _Always._

 

Well, she guess, she's much stronger and resilient than she thought she ever was.

 

_Would her parents be proud of her?_

 

To know that their daughter is a fighter; she haven't given up yet.

 

_When you control your thoughts and emotions, you control everything, dear._

 

She thinks it was Bizzy who told her that - one of her mother's bovine life lessons and hacks. Because even though Bizzy wasn't the ideal parent - what the heck is the ideal parent anyway, she knows she isn't - she've always just wanted what's best for them. Her and her brother included. And for the longest time, she was bewitched to her mother's every word, transfixed like any young girl would and mesmirised by the awe that is her mother.

 

Small and looking up at her mother, she remembered telling herself she will never measured up to the flawless Beatrice _"Bizzy"_ Forbes Montgomery. Small because she didn't sprout until she hit fifteen, where over the summer she grew four inches in height and lost almost forty pounds, where the first day of High School and the succeeding years after she was teased for her appearance, for looking like _Big_ _Bird_ and _Sasquatch_ for her flippers. She couldn't really blame them for stating the obvious. Then, it hurt nevertheless, especially when her mother reckoned that they were accurate.

 

She guess the unloving and unattuned Bizzy was her way to love and nurture and mother because it was all she've ever known and grown up to suffer as well. Yes, her grandmother, rest her cold and bitter soul - Margaret Cornish Forbes - was exactly that, the mother of all unattuned mothers. Cold, mean, and hypocritical.

 

Bizzy just wanted what's best for them and she's understands her reasoning and approach - she thinks she can pity her mother for being downright cruel at time. Because she wanted the best in terms of Bizzy, best through her own manual, best by her own set of rules and criteria.

 

Perhaps that's what makes an ideal parent.

 

_Wanting what's best for your children._

 

And she thought, for a while she actually mastered the art of what Bizzy was preparing her for - the ability control every aspect of _your_ life. Not as excellent as her mentor, of course, but just as.

 

_Blink when you feel as though you're about to cry. Just blink._

 

Her mother told her and she closed her eyes as instructed. Innocently and intently listening to her mother like any other naïve ten year old would. Later she learnt that it is in infancy and childhood, a daughter would catch the first glimpse of herself in the mirror that is her mother's face.

 

So, that entails that she is Bizzy, right?

 

_Now, picture an ocean...You are that ocean. And when you see a wave coming, it's all mind over matter from this point on, dear, and you just simply blink. Just like that - blink._

 

Her eyes were closed and she saw a wave in a distance - the undesired emotion - and she blinked through closed eyelids.

 

_I did it. I did it, Bizzy._

 

She beamed at her mother. Waiting for a _well-done-Addison-pat-on-the-back_ on her mother's part. An approval she sought so fiercely that never flattered.

 

_No, you didn't, dear. It's just your imagination. It takes immense discipline and practice, Addison. Don't think you can master the skill over night because it's not as easy as I make it seem...But you're still a Forbes, we're nothing if not mavens of discipline and self-control._

 

Oh, how she wishes she could be more Forbes than Montgomery.

 

_Why don't you teach Archer about these stuff too, Bizzy? He's missing out on a lot._

 

She was always so puzzled as to why her mother never sat Archer down and teach him all the life lessons she had taught her.

 

_Because, darling, you see, you're a lady and us, ladies are cursed with vulnerability, unlike men. And I have to teach you all this, so you'll be prepared for the future and you can protect yourself. I only want you happy, dear._

 

She wanted to follow that up with a question, but Bizzy didn't seem too in tuned in ' _preparing_ ' her for the future anymore and had told her to go practice the piano because Rachel Greene can play Beethoven with her eyes closed and stupendously, she added.

 

_From what? She needs to protect herself from what?_

 

And for years, she've been asking herself the wrong questions. _From what?_ The pronoun was incorrect all along since it should've been _whom_ , rather than _what_.

 

_Whom does she need to protect herself from?_

 

It wasn't a thing that she ought to shelter herself from, like she thought her mother had meant, it was a someone - the someone.

 

And she only started realising that late, when it had become too late, when she stopped doing just that - protecting herself - because she saw no point in it, especially when she found _the someone_ whom would never hurt her. She need not hide away from the love of her life.

 

It all faded away when she married Derek.

 

But she should've known. Her mother had warned her. It was basically a warning. Bizzy knows best - she always does and she knew, even then, that her daughter is an attention seeking whore - even more so than the average female. And husbands don't always grant wives with that because they don't understand since they aren't the ones cursed with vulnerability, empathy, emotions.

 

_Emotions_.

 

Derek had always said she had none But, really, she actually thinks she has too much of those.

 

_Emotions_.

 

Maybe she's just great at masking them. Maybe she's better than her mother at it. Maybe she should stop undermining her capabilities and give herself some much needed credit and praise once in a while.

 

She should let Derek blame her mother really. Perhaps her father too. Because it's the lack of parental warmth and validation that shaped who she've become. It's those lacking that warped her sense of self, made her lack confidence in and be wary of close emotional connections.

 

But then, she remember that her mother is Bizzy Forbes, and she still manages a couple of different emotions from time to time.

 

But she, she just seemed to have given up long ago.

 

She used to think that maybe - just maybe - if she squeezed a couple tears over the multiple coats of mascara, she could stop Derek from taking another step towards the door. Maybe he'll care this time and truly understands how lonely she is. Maybe she should just talk to him. But, that's the thing, she did. At the very beginning, he just laughed at her. And she reciprocated with a giggle because she heard it echoed in her head and it sounded like a joke.

 

_Don't worry, Addie. Mark will keep you company._

 

Towards their end, he actually believed her. _A little._ Not so much since she never made things easy for herself. She's not sure how because nothing had really changed, other than their more frequent explosive spouts.

 

_Derek._

 

It was the first Christmas they didn't celebrate together. They made a vow that even with their busy schedules, Christmas would be a must for them. Because Christmas was theirs, they both agreed on that. A verbal contract.

 

They just stood there, the two of them, in the hallway - it was empty apart from the divider that sat their wedding photos and the little knick-knacks she had collected. And when a tear finally formed in her left eye, he watched her as she blinked it away. And then she silently cursed at herself because maybe that's what he was waiting for.

 

_Blink when you feel as though you're about to cry._

 

Even though she was all the way in Connecticut, her mother was still talking in her ear.

 

He just shook his head and took another step. Maybe he was disappointed in her. The more the merrier, because he wasn't alone. She was disappointed in her too.

 

_I'll see you...later._

 

The last word - _later_ \- it sounded like a question, like he wasn't even sure.

 

And when he was chosen to assist on a deep brain stimulation, a procedure that's all the way in Seattle, a marvellous opportunity and exposure for him - of course it was. She was more than happy for him, she was the one who helped him study and run through the procedure even though she sucked at neuroanatomy.

 

They were a duo. Partners.

 

"Are you going to say anything before you leave?" she asked. "A goodbye maybe?"

 

He just watched her blankly. "You look pretty."

 

Her nose curled at his lie because she's gotten way too thin to be pretty anymore. So, she told him that she's never been pretty anyway, just attractive once upon a time. He used to tell her that that was much _much_ better. Now, he doesn't even warrant her defiance with a response.

 

He looked at her, a mixture of disgust and confusion crossing his blues quickly. The last time he looked at her like that was when he caught her slumped beside the porcelain toilet bowl, wedding ring on the floor beside her, making her fourth finger look horribly bare. He told her he'd never seen anyone look so pale and so weak as he watched her try to regain composure.

 

Addison remembered her legs being too shaky for her to stand, and when she'd attempted it, she fallen back down in a heap.

 

Her skin was cold, he'd let her know just that as he'd carried her to their bedroom.

 

_Until that moment, she'd forgotten how to remember._

 

The last time she truly felt connected, they'd gone to the grocery store, and on impulse, and had decided to buy enough ingredients to make an apple pie.

 

The pastry was soggy on the bottom and burned on the top, and the sugar in the filling had separated from the apples. She'd smeared some over his lips and then kissed it off and he'd done the same to her.

 

Their clothes came off faster than she could ever remember them coming off before, and he had her right there, on the kitchen counter.

 

The next day, she made herself sick in their bathroom with both the shower and sink running, because the smears of apple pie had taken her over her daily calorie intake, and once she was done, smelling minty-fresh, she kissed him, then, told him to _fuck_ her, because she needed to burn as much calories as she can.

 

She'd never used that word before, nor would she ever again, and now she remembers the frown etched into his face as she removed her silk nightgown.

 

"What?" she had barked as he stared.

 

He said nothing, just fingered each protruding rib, both hip bones until she couldn't stand the scrutiny any longer and had taken charge, on top of him like he'd always wanted back in medical school. Only it wasn't medical school and now as she recalled, she thinks he had actually protested and most probably didn't want _it_ or _her_ at all.

 

She remembers how he looked at her the day of Savvy and Weiss's wedding, when she stood at the top of the staircase in midnight blue.

 

She remembers when he kissed her neck and told her she'd better not be wearing panties because there were all kinds of things he wanted to do to her in the cab.

 

She remembers his scent and his eyes and the warming mixture of Scotch on his breath.

 

She remembers the day she fell in love with him and the day he told her he loved her almost a thousand times before.

 

For so long, she'd forgotten how to remember. Now she can't remember how to forget.

 

She wants to forget her past. It's too painful to remember.

 

_Why is it so difficult to obtain control?_

 

She has no control over her own life and her son's too because _he_ plays them like the dummies she used to practice inserting NG tubes, central lines and catheters in rotation.

 

She's lost in every aspect of that word.

 

Lost, because she wanted more-

 

"Ma!"

 

The cry snatched her from her daydream and she jumped, joints vibrating painfully, and she stopped threading her fingers through her son's hair.

 

"Ma! No! Ma!"

 

She tensed at his words, heart shredding into pieces as she gently tried to wake him from his nightmare.

 

"Christopher," she kept her voice low. Not wanting to rattle him any further but she can't help and wonder what he's dreaming about. "Hey, it's okay. Wake up."

 

He's still asleep, his face scrunched with fear and body rigid, but his hands were anxiously holding onto something - or perhaps someone - above.

 

It looks as though he's trying to hold on... _onto her?_

 

_Oh goodness!_ She's going to be sick.

 

That has always been her nightmare too.

 

"MA!"

 

He's louder now, he's thrashing everywhere and his legs were in sync with his arm. Left, right, up and down, he's grabbing, trying to hold on. And her heart is sprinting away, she feels panicked, like it's actually happening. Like _he's_ here and wrenching Christopher out of her arms.

 

"MAAA! I DON'T WANNA GO!"

 

She took his clawing arms and pinned them at his sides and pressed his body tightly onto hers, carefully enveloping him to safety, to what he's desperately urging.

 

"Baby, it's okay. I'm here. It's just me. You're safe, okay. Just open your eyes, Christopher."

 

She's holding him even closer now, whispering safety into his ear and hopes he can hear her, believe the dexterity in her voice.

 

He'll always be safe when he's with her.

 

"Christopher, sweetheart, I'm here...It's only me..."

 

She felt his whole body tense against her and he cried out once more and for a second, she feared he's never going to wake from his nightmare, that just like her, he'll wake up to a new one over and over and over again. But then, he softened, relaxed and she did too.

 

"It's okay, baby. Just a bad dream." she assured him quickly while stroking his flushed cheek and keeping him close to her chest. She don't know if it's possible but she's positive he still has that newborn baby smell. "You're okay, believe me...We're okay..."

 

She wishes that wasn't a lie, because their days are forever numbered here. Their end could be any day now.

 

If only she could somehow get that fucking door open.

 

He just looked up at her with a frown, lips trembling, wide eyes that are a carbon copy of hers, and other than the reflection of her damn cheekbones, she's able to read something much deeper in his crystal clear blues.

 

_Relief._

 

He's relieved.

 

_Was it because of the nightmare? Or because of yesterday? Or perhaps both._

 

"You wanna talk about it?"

 

He just scrubbed a tear off his cheek and shook his head, adamant. _No_.

 

Maybe she'll ask later.

 

She pulled him close.

 

He's so much like her and in so many ways, like they're _almost_ twins. _Almost_. Almost like he's not part monster.

 

Not at all.

 

She'd like to think that they're exactly alike with no difference whatsoever. But just like opening a Pandora's box because she has no control and she only reacts on impulse now, she caught a glimpse of what's not her. _Just blink._ And she did and unlike Pandora, she's able to close the said box tightly and shelf it high enough for no one to reach. Especially her.

 

She don't think him in that way. He's hers and only hers.

 

He reached out to skim over the bruises on her neck and she can't help but suck in a breath when he did. It's just another medal decorating on her graying skin - another proof for her feeble attempts.

 

She's never enjoyed being on either ends of physical fights. Verbal fights are a whole other story.

 

"I'm sorry, Ma." he whimpered into her shirt, closing his eyes shut like he's afraid that just looking will further hurt her, "Does it hurt?"

 

_Does it hurt?_

 

She guess it does.

 

_He's_ psycho.

 

"No, it doesn't. It's okay."

 

It's a lie and she thinks Christopher knows it too because he's smart like her - actually even smarter and her voice is too painfully coarse for anything to be okay right now.

 

"What's a little freak?" he asked, twisting his little body slightly so they're directly looking into each other's eyes. Sad and blue, lashes matching the head of hair that's too dark a shade to be exactly hers.

 

_Poor little freak's got two heads or something?_

 

She wished he hadn't heard that.

 

"Oh, Christopher." Addison's eyes fill with tears, and she gulped down a shaky breath to keep it together.

 

"Why _he_ saying something is wrong with me?"

 

Sighing, she cupped his cheeks, "There's nothing wrong with you. You're perfect." and kissed the tip of his nose, "So so perfect."

 

It's cold.

 

"But why _he_ said it?"

 

_He_ says a lot of things and most of them are moronic and obtuse and she learned to block him out a long time ago.

 

" _He's_ just trying to drive me crazy."

 

"Why _he's_ -"

 

"You know how you like to play with your cars and toys?" she wrapped her arms around him and he nodded, "Well, _he_ likes to play with my head." she tapped her own head and he looked uneasily at her, confused maybe on how's that even possible. But, as kids are, he quickly jumped to the next puzzle.

 

"Is laid off like lying down?"

 

_Right_. She almost forgot about that. _He's_ been rendered jobless for basically half a year and in all that time she had thought _he_ was miles away at work and miles away from them and they were miles away from danger, when in reality, _he_ was just and most likely, _here_. There - in that stupid house - while they're here - in _his_ stupid backyard.

 

"No. It means _he_ lost his job."

 

Everything is so out of control and uncertain now. The probability of _him_ coming into this box at any given time is much more higher than ever.

 

_He's_ probably _there_ right now.

 

_Is he looking for a job?_ She wants to know. Needs to know his plans. Demands to know what's in store for them. _What is he going to do with them?_

 

"Why _he_ said don't forget where you got me?"

 

That question hit her like a freight train.

 

"Oh, give it a rest for one minute, will you?" she snapped and lifted Christopher off her lap, heading for the refrigerator. She's parched and she thinks she absolutely can devour a whole cow right now.

 

That thought just made her very nauseous.

 

She has no idea why she's being so spiteful so suddenly.

 

Of course, it's the question, she's just not prepared to answer that. Never will be, because she never thought she'll conceive a child in the way she did. _Heinous_.

 

_What's wrong with her?_

 

No one ever thinks they will.

 

It's just that she was always dreaming for a fairy-tale marriage with the _'and they lived happily ever after'_ at the end. Just like the classics. She don't know how she'll react when he asks who his dad is. She hopes he'll never give it a thought.

 

Christopher is no one else's but hers.

 

He's quiet, she observed. No more relentless questions.

 

Grabbing a glass, she filled a cup of juice for herself, and stared in the refrigerator like she does sometimes to get lost in a haze of bright when all is not. Only this time, there's nothing to get hypnotised into because there's no light piercing it's way into her eyes.

 

It's dark.

 

_That's weird._

 

She closed the door shut before opening it up again. She does that three more times, rubbing her palms over her face after each time, irritated. She thinks she knows why.

 

"The minute's up, Ma. Why _he_ says don't forget where you got me? Wasn't it heaven?"

 

She's yanking the chain on the lamp. Up, down, up, down - with a lot more force than she should. "He meant...who you belong to."

 

"I belong to you."

 

She gave him a small smile.

 

"Is lamp bulb used up?"

 

"No. I don't think so." she shivered, running her hands over her arms.

 

"Why lamp is not _oning_?"

 

"Power cut."

 

_He_ cut the power in this dump. Just when she thought things here couldn't get any worse, it did.

 

"What's that?"

 

Her punishment.

 

* * *

Bitterly cold and humid - such an enchanting combination. _Isn't it?_

 

Much like that day.

 

_Who the fuck gave Mother Nature the permission to let it fucking rain when it's barely even forty degrees?_

 

It's already goddamn cold without the freaking water falling from the sky.

 

He pulled on his coat tighter and jammed his hands, that were shaking so badly, into his pockets. He's going to need another drink, he reckons, if he wants his hands to stop seizing.

 

_Has he thrown away his life?_

 

That's what everyone kept babbling on and on about. But he doesn't think so. He just chose to stop investing too much into something that's so uncertain.

 

He'd like say he's living in the moment, in the now and present.

 

He'd also like to say that he's angry. He's still angry and with very good reason too.

 

Not at Mother Nature; at the other mystical and fictional creature.

 

He's not going to point fingers. _No, he's not._ He's not that petty. It's controversial. _Ok, but who cares, really?_ He've always had a flare for stirring up trouble anyway.

 

_Who did you think started the rumour that coach and the ancient librarian from high school were getting it on in the locker room?_

 

_Or hid away Jake Padalecki's lunch and clothes after gym?_

 

_Or pushed Maya at the playground in kindergarten because she said she didn't want to marry him when he had asked her to?_

 

It's a lie. He loves being petty. And the one to point finger at for his life turning upside down is God.

 

_Yes, God._ A three letter destruction. Simple as that. G. O. D.

 

The biting cold chilled his fingers into clumsy numbness.

 

Much like the day Bizzy called to tell him that the police had paid them a visit, informing them of Addison's disappearance.

 

_Disappearance? What the hell's wrong with you, Bizzy? That's fucked up. Even for you._

 

He spat into phone because he thought his mother was propelling one of her usuals, her garbage that no one really ever pays mind to ( _Only Addie. She takes Bizzy's criticism to heart - always._ ) But then, she wasn't since Bizzy actually sounded worried. Abnormally concerned and frantic. Not like the mother they had opened their eyes to.

 

And for once Bizzy wasn't all that cold.

 

_No_. His sister can't be missingHis sister can't still be missing because the first forty-eight hours are the most important in a missing person investigation.

 

_Seven years._

 

It is cold. She is cold. Her case is cold.

 

Wandering, he's been strolling aimlessly until he can't move anymore, until his legs gave out and he's surprised but also, not really, to find himself in the park that Addison and him used to play in as children.

 

His lips turned a more blueish hue and his teeth chattered like a pneumatic drill. _Had he been out here for minutes or hours?_

 

It's really just a mystery.

 

_Like where is his sister's body?_

 

He's on the same bench where they'd sit and eagerly munch on their ice creams like it's their first ever and where they'd take breaks before resuming whatever game they were playing. It's the same bench because the engraving is still here - _A. A._

 

_Addison. Archer. Or perhaps, Addison Adrianne. Yeah, that's more like his sister._

 

To his left, overlooking the now icy lake is the hill where Addison tumbled over after falling off her pink bicycle.

 

She had wanted a red one but the store didn't have any bikes that she liked in red and she was adamant on not going back home empty handed. So, she settled for pink.

 

He was ten. She was six. He was terrified when she didn't move and he thought he had lost her.

 

Little did ten year old Archer know, years later he really would lose his sister.

 

It was a lifetime ago. His precious little sister. Four years younger than him. She's dead. He's still struggling to come to terms with that. _Dead_. He's a doctor. Dead, that word shouldn't have to have any affect on him.

 

Images assaulted his mind of Addison, happy and healthy and smiling with that gap in between her two front teeth, showing off her math test scores to parents who couldn't even bother to at least fake enthusiasm. But he cared, he have always cared about his baby sister.

 

_Always._

 

And so he took her out for ice cream in celebration for having a perfect score. The highest amongst all first graders

 

She held his hand as they crossed the street. Tightly like she always does because she had an irrational fear of crossing the street that she didn't quite quickly grew out of like everyone else said she would.

 

_Archie, hold my hand._

 

He puffed a breath, annoyed.

 

_Seriously, Addie. You're such a crybaby._

 

He didn't want to hold her hand. He's ten. A big boy.

 

_What would his friends think of him if they saw him?_

 

He grabbed her hand and yanked her arm, dragging her with him to cross the street so she'd hurry since she was always that; slow. She calls it graceful because Bizzy said a lady must show poise and grace. But he just calls it slow.

 

Let's just say there were tears after that.

 

_I hate you! I hate you!_

 

He didn't care that she had said that to him, then. He screamed the same thing back at her. _I hate you too_. It's what siblings do because _I-hate-you_ holds no meaning, because, really, they both know they don't.

 

Now, it's a different story.

 

He can still almost feel her tiny palms on his. _Almost_. Small and cold. But if he'd just close his eyes and concentrate even harder on that day, maybe - just maybe he could pretend that he's still holding his sister's hand.

 

_Don't leave me here!_

 

_I can't always hold your hand, Addie!_

 

He can't bare it anymore. He's running away. The wind cut through his skin and tortuously slashed his marrow with constant harsh blows, like rime daggers, as they moaned in the pleasure that was his pain.

 

Much like the day he sprinted to the other side of Manhattan in great fury.

 

Without any means of a thought, he sprinted out of his Tribeca loft right after Bizzy called. It's a five mile run powered solely by adrenaline and fear.

 

_Where is she?! Where is my sister?! Shepherd, open this fucking door!_

 

He ran up the steps two at a time and practically flung himself at the familiar mahogany door, banging mercilessly at it with his fists with Addison's voice in his ears.

 

_Archer, hold my hand._

 

_Huggsy and I can't sleep._

 

_Don't leave me here!_

 

_I'm scared._

 

If she's afraid of crossing the damn street, he doesn't even want to think about how terrified she must be.

 

_Derek, where's my sister?_

 

He never liked him. _Derek Christopher Shepherd._

 

He wasn't even the worst of all her boyfriends, but he never liked him. He _loves_ his sister - no, _loved_ , past tense, because he's dating a child now - but he never liked him. He made her happy - he absolutely did made her happy and still he never liked him.

 

He never liked any of the boys she brought home.

 

Truthfully, they could all be Jesus and he'd still not like them.

 

No man can ever be worthy for his sister.

 

Okay, okay, he _liked_ Derek. But he'll never admit to that, even if his life's on the line.

 

Liked, because he has refuged to Seattle, leaving his sister's memory behind in New York to start afresh with an intern who could very well be his daughter.

 

_Fine. He's just exaggerating._

 

He had warned Addison about him, told her that marrying him will be a bad idea, told her that people like him aren't for people like them. _He's not one of us, Addie. Get it through that thick skull of yours._ But she gave him the ' _she loves him and please just be happy for me'_ speech.

 

He doesn't want to say it and he won't but he can't help thinking it. _I told you so, Addison. But you wouldn't listen to me._

 

He's not gloating. He's just right, they fell apart after four years of marriage and he just watched it happen because Addison had it all under 'control'.

 

_What did you do to my sister?_

 

He lunged at Derek the second the door opened, his eyes ablaze with something resembling unadulterated hate. They both fell to the ground with Derek landing flat on his back, his head slamming on the hardwood floor that he knows had taken Addison months in finally settling with the classic brown hardwood instead of the modern black.

 

She had asked for his opinion. The black one, he said, and she agreed with him as well. It was a modern take on the classic brown. And when she invited everyone to the brownstone for a mini get-together and the first sighting of their new house, the floors were brown.

 

Typical Addison to go for the complete opposite.

 

_Where is she, Shepherd?_

 

He have always had her back whether she liked it or not, whether she was aware of it or not.

 

He was the one who had beaten the shit out of Chad Michael when he found out he was spreading nasty rumours about her.

 

He was the one who gave Derek the ' _you hurt my sister I hurt you ten times worse'_ speech before their wedding.

 

He was the one who had told her to opt for Columbia instead.

 

He was the one who had relentlessly teased Senna MontClair for an entire year before she transferred because she had called Addison an ugly duckling.

 

He was the one who carried her home when she tumble down the hill and sprained her ankle.

 

And the one time he turned his back and trusted Derek to protect his sister, he lost her.

 

_If anything happens to my sister, I will kill you with my bare hands!_

 

Then, he didn't know what went down the night Addison went missing. But now, he does.

 

Adultery - she had proven that she was a true Montgomery. He don't condone her actions but that too didn't gave Derek the rights to kick her out of her own house.

 

And when the police asked him about Addison's relationship with her husband, he may or may not have exaggerated the extent of their marital problems, that may or may not have landed Shepherd an arrest, that may or may not be the reason why he was booked and processed and sent to Rikers for two days to wait for his bail hearing.

 

_Derek in orange?_

 

Addison would've freaked out.

 

Let's just say he was acquitted of all charges.

 

He's turning the lock. He's pushing the door. He's stumbling. He's falling. He's crashing onto something.

 

_He's home._

 

* * *

We brushed our teeth and ate our cereal many _many_ hours ago. Ma told me to slow down and not eat so fast or I'll have a tummy ache because when we eat in a hurry, we are also swallowing the invisible air with our food.

 

But how about when we talk, aren't we also swallowing the invisible air? Will I get a tummy ache for talking too?

 

I need to ask Ma.

 

She is sitting on chair with her elbows on the table and covering her face with her big _big_ hands and breathing really hard. I think maybe she is tired again because she was vomiting breakfast in toilet all morning.

 

I put a glass of water on table for Ma to drink.

 

"Ma, for you."

 

He didn't cut the water power. I don't know if he maybe forgotten to or not but I think it's good that he didn't.

 

She look at me and I see her eyes are all shiny and her nose is red and she wipe her face with sleeve and make sniffing sounds. "Thanks, baby." she says to me and I tell it's okay, Ma, and I go play with my toys.

 

Maybe I'll just ask question later.

 

Ma gets up and say we need to have a bath but when we turn tub tap on, it comes out all icy, so we just wash with cloths.

 

She tells me to put my arms up but I forgot that it was all a trick and she tickle me.

 

"Ma, stop!" I jump away like Spider-Man and we laugh.

 

_Sneaky Ma!_

 

It's so cold and we are shivering, me more than Ma. I wait next to bed, my teeth are shaking too while Ma go find our jackets in dresser.

 

I cover my mouth when I speak, I don't wanna swallow the invisible air and have tummy ache too. "Ma, it's April, why it's so cold?"

 

"I don't know." Ma comes back with our sweaters and jackets and socks and t-shirts and pants and goes low like my height but still taller. "Climate change, I guess. Why are you doing that?"

 

One of Ma's brow is higher and I try to do it too, but I can't. I can do both eyebrows high though. Ma says that makes me special.

 

"You said if I swallow invisible air, then I'll have tummy ache."

 

Ma smiles and says I'm funny.

 

"It's doesn't work like that, Christopher. Just when we eat too quickly, okay? Now, arms up."

 

-:-

 

It's brighter through skylight, but only little. Sun isn't so happy today.

 

TV doesn't work too because TV uses the power. I wish he didn't cut the power, then I could see my friends. Yeah, I miss watching my friends, Dora and SpongeBob and Superman ( _he's my best friend only after Ma_.), on TV because it's so quiet now without them talking. I miss talking to them.

 

I think Ma miss them too.

 

Oh, I just remember I had so many _many_ questions about outside that I couldn't ask Ma yesterday, I should now. Ma always like talking about outside. Her face lights up and she smiles with her teeth. It makes her happy.

 

But I can't remember all the questions, only some. I try to think more, I'm thinking so hard that I think my brain will explode.

 

_BOOM!_

 

"Christopher!"

 

Ma's being all loud. I jump a little and stop nibbling my fingers. She doesn't like me doing that.

 

Germs can sick me.

 

"What did I tell you about fingernails?"

 

Fingernails are home to many _many_ bacteria and fungus that can sick me. "Sorry." I say and sit on my hands.

 

"Go wash your hands please."

 

I go and stand on stool. Ma reminds me to wash under my nails too. I do two minutes on each hand until they're squeaky clean and show Ma.

 

She says, "Good." and goes back to sewing my jeans that Ma asked _him_ for treat last week because it was too big for me to fit into.

 

I wish she would ask for chocolate or candy or lollipop. I never had them, only chocolate, once for my fourth birthday. But Ma always says no when I ask. They will rotten my teeth.

 

_Once is enough, Christopher._

 

-:-

 

"Ma, if oceans and lakes and rivers outside are real for real, then everything must be wet outside, right?" I ask, breathing with my lungs so hard.

 

I am doing track and I ran miles and miles long. Ma doesn't want to run today, so I run alone. It's not really running miles and miles long - just pretend.

 

From that wall to that wall.

 

I don't think she heard me, so I go stand next to Ma. She is taking all the many bags of green beans from freezer and starts chopping them up.

 

"It's because of gravity." she says.

 

"What's gravity?"

 

I'm learning newer and newer things everyday. Ma is super duper smart. She knows lots about everything. But Ma always says I'm so much smarter than her.

 

No way, Jose! I don't think so. She always know answers to all the math questions and reads the book with no pictures at all. Not even one. Only the cover but that doesn't count. I don't know why Ma still reads that when she always sleeps afterwards.

 

"It's hard to explain, baby." she stops chopping and plays with my hair. Ma really likes playing with my hair, I think. She says it's soft and smooth and smells nice.

 

Sometimes I like it when she does that, but sometimes she's pulling too hard and it hurts my head. "Gravity is this, umm, mysterious force that makes everything fall down and, umm...Oh, it's hard for you to understand right now. You're so young. But that's all you need to know for now, that gravity is a force."

 

Ma says that lot - I'm so young to understand.

 

Like last year when I was four, I didn't know about outside because I was so young to understand. But now, I'm five, I'm so big, so Ma told me.

 

"Why are you chopping so many?"

 

I don't like green beans. _Yuck!_ Ma knows that, I always tell her that I don't want to eat it.

 

"We have to finish it all before it goes bad, sweetie." Ma gives me my plate with so many I cannot count.

 

I cross my arms around my chest, "I don't want slippery frozen green beans for lunch." I say.

 

I don't even like them when they're cooked.

 

"Well, neither do I." Ma puts my blue plate in front of me and tells me to eat it, "We have to otherwise they'll rot and it'll be waste."

 

We don't like to waste because food and water is very precious.

 

But I think green beans should be waste.

 

* * *

The sky is hazy when he finally woke up or maybe, he regained consciousness - he's not quite sure anymore. His head is aching, an intense pressure is his temples. _Both_ _temples_. The faint light from the predawn sky scream blasphemy so painful that it made him press his arm to his eyes, desperate to block out even the faintest shade of light.

 

_He's alone._

 

And that reminded him of his dear sister.

 

_Is she alone up there? Is she working her charm there too? Is she happy there than when she was here?_

 

He hopes she's _up there_ and not _down there_. They're Montgomeries by blood, so he can only hope.

 

Addison hated being alone. Even the thought had terrified her. She used to sneak under his covers at night when they were kids and he'd be unaware until the next morning.

 

Huggsy, Addison's bedtime penguin pal, couldn't even make her feel less alone.

 

He never understood her. But he does now. He understands the craving of something much stronger. He understands how the darkness can be manipulative sometimes. He understands where she was coming from.

 

It's too late now.

 

He's still cold and his skin is clammy and he pulled his coat a little tighter around himself. Even if he's been pretty much feeling this way every single day for the past few years, he doesn't know why he's still complaining.

 

_Shouldn't he get used to feeling like...crap?_

 

_Where the hell is he?_

 

He's on the floor. It's hard. He's sure of it.

 

Looking around, he can see a huge portrait of his grandfather - William Addison Montgomery - and Bizzy's antique armchair that costs a fortune and his father's plaques and certificates for all his successions.

 

Oh, right. He lives here now. _Again_. He haven't lived here since turning eighteen and leaving for college.

 

Groaning, he closed his eyes - or at least tried to when he comes face-to-face with the Captain's disappointed frown.

 

"Go away." he mumbled, waving his arm in the hopes that his father would just puff into oblivion without a speck of trace.

 

Just like his sister.

 

He didn't want that thought to cross his mind, but it did.

 

"You're drunk."

 

That's an understatement.

 

"Yea," Archer scoffed as he tried to haul himself off the floor without making a fool out of himself. Well, that's easier said than done nowadays. "It takes one to know one."

 

In his forty years of life and from the earliest memory he has of his father, he has always seen him with a glass in hand, whether be it neat or coffee that's laced, he's always and for the most part tipsy - if not drunk.

 

So, it's no surprise that he's where he is today.

 

Both Addison and him had their first drink at twelve. Whiskey neat. Bizzy would rather they drink responsibly and to her knowing, instead of sneaking out and getting into trouble and in turn, demolishing their reputation.

 

_He's not a alcoholic._

 

Whenever people would accuse him of being that, his head will be screaming, firing words like ammunition or maybe, he's actually screaming in their faces - _Fuck you! You know nothing about about my life!_

 

He watched as his father sauntered over to the bar - of course, there's a freaking bar at the Montgomery Mansion - and poured himself a drink before taking a seat on the barstool.

 

"What are you doing, son?"

 

He knows what he means. He's asking himself the same question pretty much everyday.

 

"I could ask you the same thing." he managed to make it to the couch before his legs could give out, further proving to his father that he's what everyone says he is.

 

"You need to get your act together. Get a job. Get an apartment. Get your life straight. It's embarrassing." the Captain sounded calm, polite even, but his voice was cold, like he remembered, and sure enough, he's making him feel guilt for living off of him.

 

The thing is, he had a job, he had an apartment, he had his life on a straight line. _Had_. But then, he didn't.

 

He can't form words. He's not going to deny it, he is embarrassing. He's forty. And living in his parents house.

 

He chuckled - his great escape for when he knows he's in the wrong. "Great. This is so typical of you."

 

"This..." his father snort, disgust evident on his ageing features as he pointed at him, "This was tolerable six years ago, Archer. A year off the wagon, fine. Two years, okay. But it's been seven years. Seven years, Archer. Do you really think Addie will be pleased with what you've done to your life?"

 

His jaw is set, hard. He may be right. _Well, he knows he's right._ Addison would not be pleased.

 

He can just only imagine the fury in her eyes, her arched brows, her pursed lips and the hand on her hip when she finds out that he's reduced to a bum.

 

_Get off your lazy ass, Archer! Now!_

 

And she do her _I'll-count-to-three_ thing.

 

_One...two...two and a half..._

 

Bizzy used to do that to them too.

 

It's good Addison isn't here to witness the failure he've become.

 

_But then again, when did he ever listened to his father?_

 

They never really cared about Addison. They never truly loved her like he does. They wanted a child, an heir to their fortune and Addison was merely a mistake.

 

If she was born after the legalisation of abortion, he knows he would not have had a sister.

 

"You've ruined your life. You lost your license and your apartment. You don't have a job. You sleep all day. And when you're awake, you're drunk. You know...no matter how hard I have tried to turn you into a man, it still remains the one biggest failure of my life."

 

He wouldn't mind punching his father right now. He really wouldn't. But he's not going to, only because he wants him to feel even more of a failure.

 

The Captain's failure is his pleasure.

 

"You're not a man. A man accepts responsibility for his actions. A man takes care of his family. A man don't cheat and lie to his wife. A man don't-"

 

"Your naivete is adorable." he interrupted, swinging his legs out of the stool, standing up. Archer didn't answer, his jaw clenched.

 

"You've always been some sad, pathetic, little boy and what you've done with your life have proven that. She's gone. She's my daughter and yes, it saddens me. I miss her too. But she's gone, Archer. Addison is dead. Get over -".

 

"Shut up!"

 

His father shook his head dismissively, "Addison-"

 

"Don't you dare say her name! Just because you have her name on that stupid headstone doesn't mean she's dead!"

 

They couldn't wait to declare her legally dead, Shepherd included. _Death in absentia_. He was the only one reluctant and of course, no one listened. He's just the drunk brother.

 

_Addison._

 

She was all he's got.

 

_Addison._

 

She was his only family.

 

_Addison._

 

She was the only one who understood him.

 

"It's been seven years and as much as I want to believe that she's well and...alive somewhere, there're the facts, Archer. Where do you think your sister is?"

 

* * *

We wake up from our nap and the air is still shivering. I can see the invisible air every time we breathe out.

 

Good air in. Bad air out.

 

That's called respiration. We breathe in oxygen and breathe out carbon dioxide. Many _many_ invisible gases are in invisible air. Only when it's cold we can see it.

 

Ma jumps out of bed so fast. _Zoom!_ Like Batmobile and spits all of green beans into toilet. _Eww!_ Even Ma's stomach doesn't want slimy icky green beans. I want my stomach to do that too.

 

I tell stomach it's okay to spit it all out too. Like Ma. But he doesn't.

 

Later, once Ma feels a bit better, we do science and math questions that Ma thought of. We don't have new books anymore because _he_ said to Ma I don't need to learn any because I will never ever use it in my life.

 

I don't understand what I will never use in my life.

 

Today, Ma is teaching me long division and something about the Pythagoras's theorem. I think he is the good man who helped math. I think. Something like that, maybe. I'm not really listening, just nodding and saying "hmm" and "yes, Ma." and "Why, Ma?".

 

Ma is talking a lot of words but all I understand is triangle. I want to stop now because I don't understand a word and it's making my brain hurt. But I still let Ma do the questions, she seems happier.

 

Watch says _one-seven-zero-nine_ when I look. It doesn't need the power because it has a secret hiding spot in the back and that is his own life.

 

Ma keeps yawning because she's tired from doing math. She goes to lie down and take another pill. I don't like it when she's tired because she always don't want to play with me.

 

_Go play by yourself first and I'll be right there, baby._

 

But she never really does. She always forgets.

 

Skylight getting darker now. I go to lie next to Ma too and clutch her middle.

 

"I'm glad _he_ didn't come last night." I tell Ma. "If _he_ never comes back, that would be super cool."

 

_He_ is always saying all the mean things to Ma. Like she is stupid and crazy and nobody out is caring about her and it makes me angry. I do care about Ma. I always do.

 

_He_ doesn't knows that because _he's_ stupid.

 

"Christopher." she frowns a little. "Just think about it."

 

"I am, Ma."

 

I am always thinking.

 

"No. I mean, what would happen if he doesn't come back? Where would our food come from?"

 

I know this one. "From the stores."

 

"No. But who brings the food?"

 

"Oh."

 

Ma gets up she says _he'll_ be back tomorrow. _He_ always comes back.

 

I don't know how she knows that _he_ will.

 

Ma is talking to herself again like she does sometimes. Doing the cleaning and talking. I once thought she was talking to me but she actually wasn't.

 

It was funny.

 

There's a bagel but it's wet and mushy now. Ma throws it away.

 

"What happens if _he_ doesn't switch the power on again?" I ask.

 

"I'm sure _he_ will. Maybe later tonight."

 

-:-

 

I try the buttons on TV again. Just a dumb gray box, I can see my face but not as good like in mirror. I can see Ma too. She's eating an orange, then taking another pill when she's done.

 

I wonder what the taste is. It must be yummy because she's always eating it. Maybe it taste like candy. I want to try one.

 

Maybe I can get it from Ma when she's sleeping later.

 

We play chess because Ma wants to and I say okay even though, it makes my brain all confused. Hopscotch is next and then, hide-and-go-seek. Only I can hide because Ma is so long to hide anywhere in room. I hide in under bed, beside cupboard and not breathing at all, flat like a paper and it takes Ma hundreds of hours to find me.

 

Then, we're tired.

 

Ma braid my hair because it was making my eyes itchy.

 

We make a tower out of toilet paper roll. We call it the Empire State Building. Ma says it's a skyscraper. It's her favourite. It's super tall because it has one hundred and two floors. _Whoa! I can't count to that high!_ And it's windy on the rooftop and it has tiny viewfinders that makes you see the whole city.

 

She loves the city and the lights and the freedom, she says.

 

I ask her what she's talking about. I think it's outside.

 

She says nothing and do a hand on her nose, sniffing. And I make other towers by myself because Ma doesn't feel well again. She's all quiet and hugging her legs. She does this all the time.

 

I'm so hungry, so Ma says I can have the last apple.

 

_What if he doesn't bring any more apples?_

 

"Why _he's_ still punishing us?"

 

Ma twists her mouth. " _He_ thinks we're things that belongs to _him_."

 

"Why?"

 

"Well, because we're locked in here, baby." she rubs my back and kisses my head. I'm not a baby anymore, I tell Ma. But I don't tell her that I like her calling me baby.

 

_I'm her baby._

 

I play with truck now because Ma is not feeling it anymore. She's got her face in her hands like it's heavy.

 

I crunch the apple slowly. "Is your head hurting again?"

 

"My head is always hurting." Ma is mumbling with her hands pressing to her face. She's sounds weird.

 

"Isn't the pill suppose to make pain go away?"

 

She looks through her fingers and at me, her eyes are shiny and red. I think she's crying.

 

Ma stands up so suddenly that I'm nearly scared by her. She sits on a chair and holds her hand out. "Come here. I have a story for you."

 

"A new one?"

 

"Yeah." Ma smiles.

 

She waits till I'm all folded into her arms and drops a kiss to my head. I'm nibbling the second side of the apple to make it last.

 

"You know, how Rapunzel wasn't always in the tower?"

 

That is a trick question, I know this one already. "Yea, she was with mom and dad."

 

"Yea. No, but after. Remember when she turned twelve, she got locked up in the tower because she grew up to be the most beautiful child in the world with long golden hair."

 

Dame Gothel locks her up inside a tower in the middle of the woods, with no stairs or a door, and only one room and one window.

 

"Well, I'm like Rapunzel." says Ma.

 

I laugh. "Nah. She's a girl with long golden hair. Yours is red, Ma."

 

Ma's chewing her lip again and I see red on her bottom lip. "Ma, you're bleeding."

 

She ignores me.

 

"Yeah, but I'm from somewhere else, like her. Rapunzel. A long time ago, I was in-"

 

"Up in heaven."

 

Ma growls loudly and puts her finger on my mouth to hush me. "I was a kid, just like you. I lived with my ma and pa."

 

I shake my head. _No!_ "You're the Ma."

 

"Ok. I am _your_ Ma. But I had my _own_ Ma as well. I called her mom. Well, Bizzy, actually but that's besides the point, Christopher." she says quickly. "I still have my ma and she's there," she points to door, "outside."

 

_Why Ma is pretending? Is this a new game?_

 

I don't know.

 

"She's...I guess, you'd call her grandma. She wouldn't want that, but you know what? Call her grandma, I'd love to see her frown again." Ma laughs but her eyes are still shiny.

 

Like Dora's _abuela_. That's grandma in Spanish.

 

"You grew in her tummy?"

 

Ma nods and combs my hair with her fingers.

 

"Yes, I did. And I also have a pa. You'd call him grandpa. And I have a big brother, his name is Archer."

 

I shake my head. "Like the game?"

 

"No, silly, that's archery. His name is Archer. You'd call him Uncle Archer or Archie. He'll love you so so much, Christopher."

 

That's too many names to remember. I don't know how Ma can remember all the names for stories. Her brain must be so massive.

 

My tummy's still empty after finishing apple, like the apple isn't there.

 

"What's for dinner?"

 

Ma stops smiling now. "I'm telling you about your family."

 

I shake my head.

 

"Just because you've never met them doesn't mean they're not real, Christopher. There's more things on earth than you can ever imagine."

 

"Is there any cheese left?"

 

I think I want a cheese sandwich for dinner.

 

"Christopher, this is important. I lived in a house with my mom and dad and brother."

 

I don't like this game but I have to play it so she won't be mad. "A house in TV?"

 

"No. A real house, outside."

 

That's ridiculous. Ma was never in outside. She is always here with me.

 

"But, yeah, it looked like a house you'd see on TV. A house - a big big house in Connecticut with a backyard and a fountain and a swing set."

 

"What's a swing set?"

 

Ma gets a pencil from shelf and does a drawing on paper with two persons sitting.

 

"Is that a pirate?"

 

"That's me and Archer, swinging."

 

She turns the paper sideways so I can see better. She's all excited now. Her eyes are so bright and huge, she's never like that with me. Ma is different when she talks about outside.

 

"And I used to go to the playground with Archer and we'd ride our bikes and eat ice cream. Your grandma and grandpa took us to the zoo and the beach and lots and lots of place. And _the Captain_ would take me to his work sometimes and I'd watch him work. I was a little girl."

 

"Nah."

 

Ma scrunches up the paper and throws it. She swallows hard, I can see her throat go up down.

 

One little drop of water drip drop onto table. I blink, and then there's five more drops.

 

It's not mine.

 

Turning to Ma, "Don't be crying." I say.

 

"I can't help it." she rubs the tears over her face. "You're not listening."

 

She's covers her face with her hands. I try to pull her hands away but she doesn't want me to.

 

"I miss it."

 

"The swing set?"

 

"No. Being outside. My family." Ma sounds so tired of explaining now.

 

_But I am Ma's family._

 

I hold onto her hand. She wants me to believe so I'm trying to but it hurts my head to. "You actually lived in TV one time?"

 

"I told, you it's not TV." she pinch in between her eyes, "It's real world. Outside of room. You wouldn't believe how big it is." Her long _long_ arms stretch out and she points at all the walls. "Room is only a tiny, stinky piece of it."

 

"Room is not stinky!" I'm almost shouting. I don't want to be angry at Ma but I am. "It's only stinky sometimes when the garbage rot and when we do poo."

 

Ma wipes her eyes again but tears aren't stopping. She's crying too much to stop. Ma says if someone cries, it's because they're in a lot of pain. Sometimes I'm really confused with what pain is.

 

Pain is like when you fall and scrape your knee. Or when you hit pinky toe on chair and table. But I don't see Ma hurt so I don't know why she's in pain.

 

"You're just trying to trick me and you better stop, Ma."

 

"Okay." she says, all her breath hisses out like a dying ballon. "I'm sorry."

 

-:-

 

"I wouldn't lie to you about this." Ma says while I'm slurping my water. She made me a sandwich for dinner but didn't have one. I asked her why, she's not hungry. "I couldn't tell you before because you were too little to understand so I guess I was sort of lying to you then. But now, you're five, I think you can understand."

 

I shake my head.

 

Ma groans loudly and flop onto bed.

 

It's very dark now. I can't see much but I remember the way around room.

 

I wiggle to bed to have some of Ma's milk.

 

Ma is not wanting to talk anymore. She does that a lot when she's angry. She keeps quiet. But I know her mind is not.

 

"Why don't you like it here?" I ask her.

 

She sits up and pulls her t-shirt down.

 

"I wasn't done."

 

"Yes, you were." she says. I can't see her face but her voice is so mean. It doesn't sound like Ma. Her voice is always nice like music. "You were talking."

 

I sit up too. "Why don't you like it in room with me?" My breathing is all fast and high, I scrub a tear off my cheek. I didn't even know I was crying.

 

Ma breath out loudly and pulls me close. "No, Christopher. I always like being with you."

 

"But you said room was tiny and stinky."

 

She says nothing for a minute. And I wait.

 

Maybe she's thinking of her answer. But I think she just really doesn't like being with me in room.

 

"Yeah. I'd rather be outside. But with you." she says finally, "Always _always_ with you."

 

"But I like it in room with you, Ma." I rub my nose, sniffling a bit.

 

I want to be with Ma all the time.

 

"Okay." Ma wipes away my tears and tells me to stop crying. "Okay, baby."

 

* * *

_You make sacrifices for the ones you love._

 

They spent the rest of the evening singing songs and she tried to be as enthusiastic as she can be, following along Christopher as they sing Itsy-Bitsy Spider for the fifth time. She tried to eloquent a vast range of tones, but somehow today, her larynx is just content in mono.

 

She's not quite sure what time it is, but she can hear the clock ticking. It's there - in the corner - teasing her with it's mockery.

 

_Hahaha! You're trapped in here, Addison! We're stuck with each other...forever and ever..._

 

Each _tick_ is a laugh to her face and a ridicule with every _tock_ , shouting at her what kind of a mother is she since she can't even manage to get her son to listen and believe her.

 

The sun had set some hours ago, she thinks, and now, they're basically blind. The moon is somewhere out there, just moody to shine through skylight tonight.

 

It's not dark. It's black. Asphalt. Charcoal. Tar. She can't make out anything at all. Not even the lumps of furnitures that's suppose to be _there_.

 

As a child she used to wake in the night and wish for the sun. _Huggsy_ , her stuffed animal, didn't or perhaps couldn't stand a chance against her claw-like nails. Apparently, she would pick at it every night, pulling out it's threads and innards that makes a stuffed toy and slowly obliterate it's entire existence. Her parents would always buy her a new one, but, of course, she had to give him up when she turned eleven and was suddenly deemed too old to be sleeping with a toy.

 

But Christopher, he's phenomenal in the dark. Not an ounce fearful. _Normal_. A natural, like he's in his element, like it's no different than when there's light. She wants to tell him that the dark is to be feared because that's what differentiates from good and bad, evil and virtuous, Satan and Angel, that he should be afraid because he's not a monster.

 

Her hands are shaking and she's not quite sure if it's because she's terrified or cold. She's hit with sudden fatigue and she clasped her hands over her ears. "Please can we continue tomorrow?"

 

She can feel his head move beside her and she stroke one soft cheek. "Okay, Ma."

 

"The power will probably be back then."

 

Christopher nodded at that and cuddled closer to her side. He's all bundled up from head to toe. Socks, scarf, jacket; she doesn't want him getting sick. He had protested and screamed at her, but she just wants to be very very careful.

 

"Good."

 

"And even if it isn't, he can't stop the sun coming up, right?"

 

"Right."

 

She stroked his hair, and kissed the top of his head. Even though it's dark, she knows every inch of him by heart. "I'm sorry." she whispered.

 

"Why are you sorry?"

 

She feel her exhalation condense with the air as she sighed. "It's all my fault. I made him mad. He can't stand it when I scream." She haven't done it in years. Not since Christopher was born. "He wants to punish us."

 

"How he's going to punish us?"

 

Chewing the bottom of her lip, she stroke the top of his head. "No, he already is. By cutting the power."

 

"Oh, that's alright."

 

She chuckled. "What do you mean? We're freezing, we're eating slimy and raw vegetables, it's so dark that we literally can't see anything."

 

"Yea, but I thought he was going to punish us too. I try to imagine..." he muttered and she listened, she can't quite understand where he's getting at, "Like if there were two rooms. If he put me in one and you in the other one..."

 

It's then that her breathing seized. Diaphragm froze in the middle of a contraction and her face contorted in a cry that wasn't one of grief. _Gratitude_. She's so utterly thankful to have him in her life.

 

_What did she ever do to be blessed with a son like him?_

 

He's one in a million, one of a kind. There's nobody out there like Christopher, she's sure of it.

 

He's brilliant, thoughtful, creative, generous, perfect...he's just perfect.

 

That must be what his nightmare was all about.

 

"Christopher...you're amazing...you're just perfect...all the way through."

 

While he tells her that she's the best Ma and he's the luckiest to have a Ma like her, she pull him into her arms and shower him with endless kisses. And once she's done and once he's stopped telling her that he's a big boy now, she rocked him gently, humming a made-up tune. "Ma?"

 

She mumbled in response.

 

"Are you sick because of the slimy vegetables? You shouldn't eat it if they're making you sick. I don't want you sick, Ma."

 

Oh, how she wishes she was just that - _sick_. But life is never too generous when it comes to her. Being sick is a commodity she craves because she can't go through another nine months of hellish persecution.

 

She has to be sick with the stomach flu.

 

_Right?_

 


	6. 2,586 days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s another chapter. I hope you guys will like it. Thank you for reading. And I apologise for the long wait.

** Chapter 6 - 2,586 days **

_2,586 days. . ._

It's strange how easily it all can come back to him. He's not sure what to call it or what it even means or why he's even feeling this way.

It's a concoction, a collection of testaments. All just happening simultaneously, occurring, existing all at once, in a confusing game called life.

It's a harlequin of scattered memories. Ones of gentle caresses, warm hugs, intoxicating laughs, and also the unpleasant ones, unfavourable grunts, painful glances and harsh accusations.

It's there. _Somewhere_. With the wind - fettered together in the air particles that are too minuscule to the naked eye.

It's a crumb, an atom of a scent; no, even less than that - it's more like the premonition of a scent than the scent itself.

He remembered it all. He remembers it all.

He feels it. He felt it all - her, him and they.

_What they were? Who they were? When did they?_

And just ultimately the question; why?

_Why would they?_

_How could they?_

Loving someone is probably the most demanding and assiduously difficult aspect there is to life. Love is beautiful, _yes_ , and ultimately worth all the hassle, sacrifice and inflicting wounds. Love is magical too, but love is just oh-so puzzling.

It's a puzzle with a piece missing. It's Addison, he realised, she's the missing piece to his puzzle.

Love is never taught and can never be taught. It's an endearment, a compassion, an affair so strong that it just comes so naturally with life. There's so many people to love and so many ways to love.

Greedily, completely, gradually, purposefully, fiercely, tirelessly, incessantly, relentlessly.

 _Forever_.

He loved her in every single one of those ways unendingly.

He loved her. He loves her.

It's only human to love more than one person. _Right?_ After all, he is human. _Right?_

To love more than one, it's picture perfect in a broken frame.

 _Right_. It's only human to. But also, it's an excuse to. Because people aren't supposed to. In a world where polygamous practices are frowned upon, it's not a practice for the faint heart. It's not for him. He's a realist. He doesn't take risks. It's like having an aneurysm rupturing right before you, you don't want to be in such predicament.

Never.

Because loving more than one is easy but actually keeping a balance, that wouldn't be toxic and destructive, is not.

He loved Meredith, he did and there were moments when he was so certain that she'd be the last woman he would ever say those three words to.

_I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you._

But there was just so much more missing, much more torturous minutes toppled on top of each other and, at times like this, he'd find himself trying to convince himself that he had not made the worse mistake of his life.

If he had a time machine, he wouldn't go back to when all _their_ problems started and it's only because he still doesn't know when and where their issues all began. _What happened to them? Why was he pushing her away? Why was she pushing him away?_ Because it wasn't only him. _She runs too._ She ran too. If he could, he'd probably go back to when they first got married. If he could do it all over again, he promise he'd be less stupid, less insensitive, less clueless and less egotistical.

He would tell her all the plentiful that had once upon a time got caught somewhere in his throat.

He's sorry he gave up on them. He failed her as a husband.

He loved her.

He loves her and hates her all at the same.

He loved him like a brother.

He was the brother he never had. He was his brother nevertheless.

He loves him and hates him but he just can't hate them.

But, he's sorry that he hadn't even tried. _Yes_. He would start with that because he really hadn't. It wasn't just one silly mistake of forgetfulness, one missed dinner or anniversary or birthday, it was a long list too many, a number of tragedy that he now has shamefully lost count.

She was his self-accomplishment - the one thing that he wanted and wished for and longed for in all the mornings at Gross Anatomy on Wednesdays, then at Biochemistry at three, and he had made her his and then, decided to rip apart.

Her heart. His heart.

He knows now.

Her name was the whisper he only hears in his head now. _Screechy and scary_. Addison Shepherd. _I'm a Shepherd now_ , she had said with a smile so bright that he had to shield his eyes with his hands. She was happy. He was happy. They were happy too. But their happy phase didn't last as long as they both had anticipated.

Her perfume sits alone on top of his dresser. _Alone, scared and forgotten_. The little three ounce bottle discarded. Collecting dust _Wait, it's not hers._ It's Meredith's perfume. He bought it for Meredith. But it's Chanel No. 5 that Addison loves, that Meredith dislikes.

He can taste flowers in his mouth.

Meredith wore it once when he pointed out that she hadn't even unboxed his dead wife's signature scent.

He could smell it - her or _her_ \- from a mile away. It was Saks Fifth Avenue and Barney's all over again. Chanel flagship store in Paris and cold, greasy pizza. Make-up sex in their brownstone and soft kisses, harsh pushes, angry curses and sweet touches.

He can taste it again.

She had smelt like her. Addison in Paris, on the balcony that overlooked the city, with a white sheet in a laughable attempt of modesty and red framed glasses, sipping a coffee. Their honeymoon - a honeymoon in Paris. A cliché that they both wanted.

She had smelt like Addison in mornings of Gross Anatomy, three tables away in ruby red lipstick, not the pink she normally wears on any other day. Just Gross Anatomy. Red and ready to distract him. Too far away for him to actually smell her.

She had smelt like the memories of a white lace gown, closed regal bronze casket, monochromatic carnations and lilies, vibrant hydrangeas and peonies and a four-tiered buttercream cake with sugar flowers and a stooped Mark Sloan.

She had smelt like the forgotten brownstone, lost love, ardent regret, flagrant passion, forceful indiscretion and punishable violence.

When Meredith was wrapped in his arms in an embrace, his stomach had churned and twisted and flipped in guilt and he he held his breath to swallow back down bile and close his eyes, wishing to never see red and pale and blue-green ever again.

They don't talk about her. He never ever brought her up. She doesn't exist anymore. It's hardly a fable. It's not fiction.

Her name had never come up in any conversations with _their_ family and friends - he's not in contact with the Montgomeries nor Mark anymore, so it's basically just his family because he hasn't been talking to any of _their_ friends from New York either.

_Why should he?_

Seattle is his home. Seattle is his. New York is seven years ago. New York is the past. And besides he actually likes it here and in fact Seattle likes him too, which all-in-all are the attributes as to why he had decided to stay. Other than Meredith, of course.

He _loves_ Meredith. He can't say that he doesn't because that would be a lie. He loves her because she brought light into his life when there wasn't any. She was his breath of fresh air when he was drowning in regret and deadly what ifs. Until he met her in that bar, he really thought he'd never see the world in bright colours and in vibrancy again.

She loves him too.

She loves him and he loves her and she made him feel normal again. Normal against all abnormalities.

And for a brief second so brief, he'd forgotten why he had even contemplated moving back to New York.

It was change of heart and he thought why should he.

_Why should he?_

_Why go back to a place that's only filled with heartbreak?_

_Why go back to a place where they don't want him?_

He left New York for a reason - to escape the scrutiny of the city's inhibitors.

He needed a new beginning.

He need not be reminded of what happened to his wife every second, every minute, every hour of the day. He need not be accused and spat at, _literally_ , every single day. He need not be worried for his life every time he stepped out of his house. He need not glance over his shoulders every time he walked to the store and he definitely need not be jumped and beatened and threatened every single day of his miserable life there.

Because that's what happens when people don't care, don't want to listen to the truth and just mindlessly conclude for themselves that you're a bad person, a wife beater, a murderer. Even when his name has been cleared. Even when he's been cleared of all charges. Even when he's not in...he can't believe he was denied bail. He's a surgeon. Even when he spent four fucking days in Rikers because the police liked him for the crime he clearly didn't commit. His lawyer had adviced him to not talk and interact with anyone inside but it's hard when you're the outcast amongst tattooed criminals. Even when...

 

They want to bring justice for the wife he did not kill.

 

He likes Seattle because Seattle doesn't know. Because Seattle is nicer. Because no one is giving him death stares every single time he steps out of his home. Because no one is spitting at him. Because no one is threatening to kill him. Because no one is calling him a murderer. Because no one is afraid of him.

 

And he's not afraid of everyone that looks at him anymore.

 

And that's because no one knows who he really is.

 

Here, he's Dr. Derek Shepherd, the Head of Neurosurgery. Not Dr. Derek Shepherd, who killed his wife.

 

_Yes_. He likes it here better. He likes Seattle. He's made up his mind.

 

It's early and he has once again beat his alarm clock to the punch. An hour and a half, that is. And it isn't really the first time this has happened to him this month or the last, in fact. It has basically been every day for the last two months that he's woken up to a deep gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach. So deep and unreachable that sometimes it'd continue throughout the day.

 

And this morning is no different. Since this has become habitual for him now, so much so that he now knows what to do it situations like this.

 

All he has to do is void his mind of _this_ \- whatever this is. _Guilt, perhaps?_ And go on with his day. Trying to just completely forget and ignore... _this_.

 

He's stretching out of bed, eyes bleary from sitting up half the night going through treatment plans, and he stumbled to the kitchen to make coffee. Only to find the freezer empty of beans, the space in the cabinet for his back-up stash starkly bare.

 

Addison would never ever allow such atrocity. _Out of coffee beans in the morning?_ He don't think that's ever heard of in their brownstone because she's always on top of things, well-organised and well-aware of what goes in and out of their kitchen, though she barely used it, really, other than to make coffee, and what needs to be restocked in their pantry.

 

Their...that sounds so odd now. Their, there is no _their_ anymore.

 

And he, he was just a free rider, who took advantage of his wife's existence, who followed along because he always has her to do it for him.

 

He had her to do everything for him.

 

And so, with Meredith sleeping it off, which could either be work or tequila, he's not sure which because the two have overtime blurred into one, he decided to head out for a fresh-brewed caffeine hit and a restock of his shelves while he's at it.

 

He threw a chunky knit sweater over his t-shirt and a pair of jeans over yesterday's boxer shorts. Fresh socks and a quick brush of his teeth were his concession to hygiene, but only because he couldn't find yesterday's socks. His hair took some rough and tumble from his fingers, while a splash of cologne stung his stubbled jaw, and then he was ready to hit the streets.

 

Even bundled up in a jacket, the frigid Seattle air caught his breath, eyes quickly watering from the cold. He calculated time and distance to frozen toes and reindeer nose, and adjusted his route accordingly.

 

He don't think there's a Dean and DeLuca in Seattle. There's one that's not nearly as similar, but it's a place he can only settle for.

 

Sunday morning shopping in Dean and DeLuca was their thing. _Their_ \- Addison and he. It was something they both enjoyed doing together. It was a mere two blocks up Lexington and one block over, on the corner of Madison and 85th, and with enough coffee beans to sink a merchant ship.

 

They would always get a little lost in the shuffle on the corner of busy 77th Street, when the subway disgorged a bunch of Chinese tourists flowing against the tide, cameras strung like leis around their necks. But then they'd emerge to a turn at the corner and head in through forest-green doors to a food-lover's paradise; the kind of deli angels might have envisioned if they were looking for a heavenly snack.

 

Suddenly coffee beans weren't the only thing his pantry needed. Once inside, surrounded by the sublime aroma of briny olives, rich, ripe cheeses, Serrano ham and other expensive cold cuts, chocolate of the highest cocoa content, wine, spirits and coffee, coffee, and more coffee, he found himself grabbing a basket and heading deep into this culinary treasure trove.

 

Oh, his heart sank at all the wonderful and beautiful colours and brands after brands to chose from and wines from all over the world, Addison would be in her element here. They, or more like she while he just agrees, could spend hours in here. Reading nutritional values and contemplating the best product for them to choose.

 

Oh, he feels so terribly awful because he's doing this without her. She was his partner in all, in everything. Maybe he ought to bring Meredith along and make this their thing too. Though he doubt it ever will.

 

Over a hundred dollars lighter later and his goods bagged, he lifted his takeaway coffee cup and headed for the door. His mouth was watering at the prospect of that first sensual hit of coffee, taste buds howling to be slaked. And that's when he saw _her_.

 

Seated at the small window shelf, alone, sat a redhead who had Addison's precise shade. Exactly alike. _Twins_. And from behind, she looks a lot like the love he lost. She had her back to him, her coat draped over the only other stool, which sat to her right. She had her hair knotted into a careless, artful bun. A simple white cotton shirt hung a little loosely from her slender shoulders, wide cuffs exposing her delicate wrists.

 

She's followed him too. She's followed him to Seattle.

 

He had no time to ponder the meaning of all this since his brain was too caught up absorbing the detail he could see to fathom the mysteries he couldn't. She looked so impossibly young from behind, just the girl he'd fallen in love with in medical school. The girl whom he'd married.

 

Surely, that's his wife.

 

He froze, coffee cup in one hand, bag of expensive groceries dangling from the other, while he took in the scene. She sat slightly hunched over, her posture that of the afore-imagined college girl instead of the upright, disciplined deportment she adopted over the years. A camera sat on the ledge beside her own cup of coffee, while her finger hovered over the screen of her phone.

 

This hovering pose, lip drawn between teeth, spoke to indecision, hesitation, the kind of mulling a girl might go through before taking a leap and texting a guy.

 

Maybe she too came to Seattle to start fresh.

 

He could be wrong. And he is. Of course he is wrong, because the story he'd spun for himself didn't make any sense because when she stood up and walked past him, it's tears that he's trying not to shed.

 

* * *

People say darkness presses in, well, it doesn't.

 

At least she don't think it does.

 

Anyway, what does it even mean for darkness to press in?

 

Darkness does not press in. Darkness is just there. _Always_. Sometimes even faster than the speed of light.

 

Because darkness is cunning and devious and definitely clever. Darkness kisses up to your skin closer than a mother and whispers excitement into your ears.

 

_You look so much prettier in the dark, Addison. That way, no one can see you._

 

Darkness is a familiar friend - a best friend, because it will never ever leave, because you can work a magic in your head in a matter of seconds and _tada!_ \- you're with your best friend again.

 

Darkness is funny and glib, flattering and cool.

 

_Darkness is you._

 

Darkness will be your most favourite, most desired, most wanted right up until all your exits are blocked. You have no where to go now. Only then, darkness will not be your most favourite, most desired, most wanted because you will be looking for the light. _An_ _exit_. _An escape._ The light to the other side.

 

A way to escape your friend because darkness is not longer that - your friend. An enemy, now.

 

Because darkness doesn't actually know you or want what's best for you or even love you anymore.

 

Because darkness will be encouraging you to find an escape or escapes when the first doesn't go as plan. Like the ones you can open in yourself given a cutting edge. Or a twisted sheet to tie onto something high above. Or eighteen of those little relief you have in your pocket. No wonder Amy is what she is; they really work like magic.

 

She tries not to think about those escapes. It's harder some days than others.

 

_Dum spiro, spero._

 

It's Latin. Bizzy made her and Archer take lessons since the fourth grade. She said it'd be worthwhile for their future when in fact, as she found out later, it was just a means to keep them busy after school and away from infiltrating her zen.

 

_While I breathe, I hope._

 

_Dum spiro, spero._

 

With every breath she takes, she's hoping. She can only hope.

 

_How often has she been confused with day and night?_

 

Sometimes she gets too lost in her own darkness that she fears she won't ever get out.

 

She's thinking of a way out of here. A safe way that leaves them unhurt. She's brainstorming. _How can they escape safely?_ She've been trying so hard to come up with a plan that it just always leaves her brain throbbing so viciously.

 

She can't do it.

 

She's afraid. She needs to be in control of her life again.

 

She can't do it. But she trying or is she?

 

Maybe she ought to wait a little longer and continue hoping that Derek will be the knight in shining armour she knows he is.

 

He'll burst through the metal door, calling out for her.

 

_Addison! Addie! Addie, my love!_

 

And then, he'll kiss her like it's their first kiss all over again and he'll scoop the both of them into either arms while she tells him she's so happy to see him.

 

_You came, Derek. You're really here._

 

Finally, they'll ride off into the sunset.

 

She's laughing now. She's pathetic. Her imagination proves how dangerous and delusional she've become.

 

Also, with a five year old and still no power, she've been reading the same fairytales over and over again. The stupid ones with unrealistic happy endings.

 

_What does it even mean to live happily ever after?_

 

She used to be one of those silly little girls, wishing for a fairy tales wedding, and it was only when she was six that she pieced together her parents wreck of a marriage, when she understood that her dad was more than just giving his secretary a big hug and a kiss that was never like the one he'd give Bizzy. It always involved a lot more than just a peck.

 

It's all just fucking nauseating. _He's_ nauseating. Her father, her mother, and of course, she, herself. She hates everything and everyone. She hates waking up here. She hates waking up, period. But she has to, that's her only motivation. She has to. She has no reason to. _Nil_. Absolutely none.

 

She just has to.

 

She's tired.

 

She woke up to the sky being grey; looking through their only evidence of the world. Not a surprise or actually, it could very well be damn bright and she wouldn't even know. Every aspect and inch of this dump is grey. The walls. The furniture. The water. Her skin.

 

"What do you want from me?" she chanted, pummelling on the cemented ground with her balled-up fists. Her bad wrist ached at the pressure but it's okay, just like many other pain. It's all okay. She loves it.

 

She held onto her wrist firmly before repeating the turmoil all over again. "What do you want from me? What do you want from me?"

 

_She's talking to who?_ It's a question directed to her and it's question she has no authority to answer.

 

"What do you want from me? What do you want from me? What do you want from me? What do you want from me?" Now at the third expulsion, the exhaustion began to kick in - the drumming beat of her pulse on her wrist, clenched fists slowing, her arms are tired, sobs wrecking her chest easing to hiccups that stuttered around the breathless gasp she made for air.

 

"What do you want from me?..." she uttered the words one last time in a crude whisper, announcing each word after each fist meeting ground. Painfully, she knows the answer. Her tissue thin voice, shy of death, and cruel embarrassing tears courses down her cheeks.

 

She has nothing to give anymore.

 

"What did floor do?"

 

Addison turned around at the sleepy little voice.

 

She couldn't even manage to cover up the trail of tears that sodden her cheeks. She doesn't need to anyway because Christopher won't ask her why she's crying.

 

So, she just puffs out a breath and wipe stupid tears with the back of her hand. "I need to hit something." she said. She's hell bound frustrated. "But I don't want to break anything."

 

"Why not?"

 

"Actually..." her voice trails off. She's imagining what it'd feel like to bury her hands into a thousand glittering fragments and encrust the morsels in thick flowing scarlet. "Actually I'd love to break everything in this god forsaken room."

 

It's been over a week and they're down to their last ration.

 

"Can grandma and grandpa and Uncle Archer come here sometime for real?"

 

She looked up at him, and for a moment her expression hardened, but not in anger or indignation or even irritation that she has eaten since breakfast; it's almost sundown now and there's a last can of baked beans in the cabinet.

 

And she's still waiting for him, waiting for the confoundingly loud bark of the door opening, and him - just waiting for his loud scruffs and heavy malapert and it's been ten days now and she hasn't taken her eyes off of the door.

 

_He'll come back -_ that's what she tells Christopher. She hopes he will. It's either that or their bodies will eat them alive.

 

_He'll come back, Christopher. I'm almost sure he will._

 

She don't even believe her words.

 

"I wish they could." she said, "I pray so hard for it every night."

 

"I don't hear you."

 

"Just in my head."

 

Montgomeries don't pray - not ever, just when they need something.

 

"They're wishing it too." Oh, god, she hope so. "But they don't know where I am."

 

"You're in _room_ with me!" he bounced in his chair and she grab to hold onto him, so he won't fall.

 

That'd be a nightmare.

 

"Yea, but they don't know where room is. They don't know that I'm here with you. They probably think..." They probably think she's dead in the ditch somewhere. "...They don't know about you at all."

 

He raised his brows and purses his lips, "That's weird. They could look it on Dora's map. I think she can help them and when they come here, I could pop out surprise them."

 

They'll be surprised alright.

 

_Will they love Christopher as much as she loves him? Accept him? And her?_

 

"They'd love that. They will love you."

 

* * *

Three years after her disappearance, and just two words, two words that was said to him, just two words and just when he was starting to process, his whole world came crashing down around the invisible bubble that he had caved for himself. And forcefully propelled him into one of the chairs at the station because his legs couldn't hold on any longer.

 

_Legally dead._

 

That means they'll stop looking for her.

 

She's dead.

 

_Legally dead._

 

The NYPD handles are over three thousand missing person cases every year.

 

She happened to be one of the over three thousand people.

 

_Legally dead._

 

But there is no body.

 

There was one.

 

Not hers, though.

 

He had thought it would be all over, that they would stop blaming each other for what had happened - to her, to them - that he would be able to live normally, when Mark was gone.

 

But it still was a tournament for him. A race, a competition where he needed to win and needed to know that he did in fact win because she had married him.

 

His best friend disappeared, sold his practice and everything he owned and blended with the air. He disappeared.

 

Not literally, of course.

 

Not like Addison.

 

He didn't say where he was heading to and Derek didn't ask because he was too proud to, because he knew if he did - ask, that is, he'd beg him to stay, not to leave.

 

The loud and never asked question of who Addison loved more was alas over. But not quite because unlike Mark, it lingered like a whistle in the wind.

 

_Why was he even surprised?_

 

It's so Mark to just leave like that.

 

The question will stay questioned, will remain unanswered but it will never be over. That's for sure. Even if he comes back, it will take a million years, a thousand four-leaf clovers, a hundred leprechauns, a pot of gold at the end of ten rainbows and one unicorn before he'll even allow the answer to be said.

 

Mark ended loving then marrying and now, running off with a redhead that made brows quirk and mouths twist and eyes to narrow in scrutiny and voices to announce their discontent.

 

_Seriously. What the hell's wrong with you?_

 

But, again, why was he even surprised?

 

It's so like Mark to go for a reminder of the woman they both loved. They couldn't save Addison, couldn't help her, so they're trying to redeem and pawn whatever they're lacking off of them.

 

He, Meredith, and Mark, the woman he spontaneously married in Vegas.

 

But another question arose; who loved Addison more?

 

They had mended their friendship for her, wrapped a cursory bandage over what should be lifetime of silence, love and want by committing to strangers and dismiss the one forgotten, but never really because she's somehow so close that they both can still taste Chanel, see her bright smile and feel her touch at any given moment.

 

He does now. _Again_. For years, he didn't, it faded, but now, it's back. She's back. It's like she's calling for him, talking to him, watching him.

 

He doesn't know.

 

He loved them. He loves them.

 

He can feel her sometimes. He can feel her... _her spirit, if you will_ \- walking across tiles, fingers tapping across walls, cold wind brushing across his skin. That's her. All those signs, it must be her. Never leaving a trail or clue. He wonders if Meredith can feel her too. But she mustn't. She doesn't know Addison.

 

_Should she? Should he tell her that there was an Addison in his life?_

 

That he thinks of her... _only_ _occasionally_. That he dreams of her too.

 

Not every day or once a week or even once a month.

 

Sometimes, occasionally, but not often.

 

_Not often enough._

 

But those dreams - no, they're nightmares, unpleasant dreams, so damaging that he'd wake in cold sweat, tears, more pain, sorrow and hatred.

 

He'd have those fucking dreams and not be able to look at Meredith all morning and all day for he'd feel like he's cheating on her - dreaming about another woman when wrapped in her embrace.

 

He was once the man, the only man for her, the only one to know the meaning to her very descriptive pause, silence and glare. He was the only man who could read her because she was an open book for him and that should've only and only been for him.

 

_Only him._

 

But then, he became the man that allowed her to slip, who didn't and should've tried harder to help her when she was too weak to see what's best for her, who thought asking favours from his best friend to have dinners and keep his wife less lonely at their home while he stayed at the hospital for just a little while, sometimes - most of the time, a lot longer than he should.

 

And that backfired to a huge slap across the face, a smack when his best friend became her lover.

 

But not really, it was really just that one time.

 

He believes her. He believed her.

 

_What difference does it make now?_

 

Mark loved her too; tirelessly and greedily, maybe sometimes even relentlessly but always _always_ continually.

 

He loved her in secret even after. But it never was a secret to him because it was always there, in his eyes. It's the same he sees in the mirror. The twinkle of fervour and guilt, he saw it until the day he disappeared.

 

And he, he loved her because it's what's written in the stars, his kismet and he's sure it's hers too. He loved her because he knew no other way, because there's no other reason to other than the fact that he loves her.

 

He loved her till she died. He loves beyond that too.

 

Sometimes love just doesn't work the way we hoped it would, and it's not because of fate or destiny or divine intervention or even Mark Sloan.

 

It's just what it is.

 

She was his and only his till the day she died. And the only thing he regret the most is not telling her that sooner and just realising it when it was already too late.

 

She was his and only his when she became his girlfriend in their first year. She too was his and only his when he moved in to her apartment in SoHo. It only made sense that he did because the shabby one bedroom he shared with Mark and his surprise guests hardly even had room for two occupants. And soon enough, she became a Shepherd and never looked back...until she kind of did go back to her Montgomery roots.

 

She had told him that she wished she was born a Shepherd, born into a loving home with unbinding warmth, love and security.

 

"What's the point of having money when we're all fucking miserable?"

 

He don't know the answer to that. He wished he does because now, he gets it.

 

"I'm sorry, Addie."

 

He just wanted to be the son-in-law of the year. _Like he even had competition_. He just wanted Bizzy to like him again. _Like she ever_ _even cared_. He just really thought it would be a great idea to spend Thanksgiving with her parents for a change because they haven't since getting married.

 

He just wanted to be a good husband.

 

Maybe being a good husband would've been listening to her when she said she didn't want to go back there.

 

He had actually forgotten how cold it can get in the Montgomery Mansion. It's not the temperature that he's talking about - it's actually pleasantly warm, oddly enough, throughout the large marbled halls and mosaic ceilings - it's the cold and silent people living in the equally silent mansion.

 

_Her parents_.

 

She was blinking down at her plate, still seated at Bizzy's long French dinning table, so reluctant to let her tears fall, and he reached out from under to hold her free hand, to tell her not to let Bizzy get to her again.

 

He remembered Addison telling him that her mother had taught her the Forbes way of discipline and self-control. She was doing that thing, that damn unhealthy thing of blinking tears away, making it fucking disappear without a trace.

 

All she ever wanted was to be loved - loved and accepted by her parents, the people who brought her to life, the people who supposedly just wanted what's best for her. It only makes sense to love and nurture what you've created, right?

 

But they're the people who just couldn't seem to give her what she was always craving for.

 

_Couldn't they have seen it in her eyes?_

 

He could. He always saw the longing, the element that was missing whenever she was in the presence of her parents. It's always there actually, hovering in her eyes. It's just much more prominent and upsetting whenever she's with her parents.

 

Her eyes wandered, collecting in hot stings at the waterline as she speared one pea and one carrot at a time. It was an awfully awkward and silent dinner, just the four of them. Archer was wise enough to decline the invitation.

 

They should've too. He should've listened to his wife.

 

Her plate was like the parted Red Sea - potatoes, gravy and the slices of turkey and string beans ( _that would've had happened either way, she hates string beans_.) were pushed to one side while she twirled her fork through the half of what's Bizzy approved for not gaining weight.

 

"Addie, c'mon..."

 

_Don't listen to Bizzy._

 

He doesn't understand why, even at twenty-six and already a brilliant doctor to many, she still gets persecuted by her very very opinionated mother. And he definitely doesn't get why she ever listened and let Bizzy's bullshit get to her and get to her to the point where an eating disorder blossomed.

 

"Addison," they shouldn't have come, he's sorry that they did, "Let's go, okay?"

 

She was searching, always searching for approval and he never understood why she was so desperate for her parents to give her that. Just like her childhood pictures in the photo albums, pictures hidden in 4"x6" pockets and only dug up in special occasions.

 

He'd only ever seen them a handful of times.

 

Young and innocent with fiery bright hair and cute speckles sprinkled all about. Nothing like her brother. That was the first thought that popped in his head when they were going through each other's pictures. And he had felt so awful - oh so awful to just be sitting there, smiling and laughing along, all the while thinking if she noticed the indifference too, wondering how Bizzy could do this to her children.

 

But nobody ever seemed to notice or perhaps, they did and like all Montgomery secrets, it's ignored and buried, protected from getting into unwanted hands.

 

He would never bring it up, even now that it doesn't really matter.

 

Archer loved his sister. Though it's quite evident that they're not each other's number one fan, he actually is when it comes to Addison since they most of the time both had the same want for her.

 

She's a Shepherd. She never wanted to be a Montgomery anyway.

 

And he watched Addison's face fall flat as Bizzy commented once again that her thighs were looking a little less toned than normal, that her cheekbones weren't as hollow, that her nose appears a little wider, and he can't help but wish that she won't visit the bathroom, because he knows what happens in there.

 

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Bizzy, let the girl eat. It's Thanksgiving, would you rather she starve herself and watch us eat?" her father had finally came to her defence.

 

_But she already was. How can they not see that?_

 

He had only noticed her frail body fairly recent and when he told her she didn't need to be on a diet, she only shrugged and played her weight loss as a consequence of working stressful hours. But it was more than that because there's a pretty significant physical difference between just losing a couple of pounds in two months and losing twenty pounds in two months. Her wrists were thin and weak, and her elbows were much more prominent. Her bones looked bigger, wanting to pierce through the thin flesh.

 

"What's wrong with you?" he spat at Bizzy, throwing his napkin onto his plate and pushed back the heavy chair harshly that screeched and bounced through the enormity.

 

She was already curled to her side on her bed when he got her room. Her knees tucked close to her chest, facing away from him. And at that moment, he thought she looked so much smaller, so much so that she was almost unrecognisable.

 

She was strong, too strong sometimes and that would always scare him.

 

She hid, always hiding behind that mask.

 

Yes, she's strong, but never in the face of her mother. She never could stand up for her self when it comes to her mother.

 

"Addison." he sighed, sitting down on the bed beside her and rested a hand on her hip. It's less than what he's used to hold at night. It's less and he don't think she even noticed. And when she rolled over to face him, her cheeks were a long trail of tears.

 

Blinking just wasn't enough today.

 

"Addie." he cupped her cheeks, running his thumb gently across her cheekbone. He can never understand Bizzy's motive for continuously crushing her fragile esteem.

 

She gripped him with both hands, the blanket that was hugging her racking shoulders slid; he reached for it when he felt her shiver. She's always cold lately. And when she inhaled and exhaled deeply, he knows she had done it because he could smell the stinging and unmistakable mouthwash on her breath.

 

It was dark in her room and wet and he just held her tight, absorbing her tears and shedding a few of his own too.

 

"Can we go home now?"

 

He smoothed her hair carefully away from her face, "Of course." he said and tried to shush, but it was years worth of pent up criticism flowing in torrents, "Addie...you need to listen to me," he doesn't want this to get so out of hand, "You're beautiful and I'm not just saying that because I love everything about you...It's the truth, Addie."

 

Her eyes collected in more shine and her lips trembled and he pressed his thumb to her lips to stop it's quivers. "You believe me, right?"

 

She sobbed again and he just held her tight, shuddering at the feel of all the solid against him.

 

And for years, he never could get her to believe him.

 

He exited the taxi and head for the short three flight of steps to his home. The air is heavy when he entered, heavy with dusty dry heat and silence, the light insufficient to read by beyond the lunar pools cast by random lamps and windows.

 

He stuffed his hand into his pocket and raised his eyebrows when he reached the couch, the sight of her forced him to a sudden stop.

 

Stretched out on the couch, one arm akimbo, her features slack; she slumbers. Pants with pressed pleats and a fine wool sweater that hugs her every curve.

 

He watches her.

 

The rise and fall of her chest as she breathes, the pale ivory of her throat, so soft and vulnerable, how perilously her arm dangles, close to falling and yet never does. She is bewitching.

 

The phone rings from the kitchen somewhere behind him and he holds his breath. The trill continues unabated and he attempted to answer the phone to stop the sound, to let sleeping beauty slumber on.

 

A cough and a curse word, the scrape of a chair when he accidentally kicked it was loud enough to arouse the dead, and her eyelashes flicker. He is caught in the doorway, captured in the blink of an eye when she stirs.

 

"D—Derek?" she mumbled, slowly coming to. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, self-conscious, and then feels for the hem of her sweater, fussing over her appearance before she's even fully awake.

 

He wonders what to take from this.

 

He decides to infer that she still at some level cared to look flawless when she wakes, not that he ever noticed that she didn't. This deduction pleased him beyond measure, pleased him more than any insight he might be able to bring m. Pleases him enough to tender an apology for a crime he hasn't even committed.

 

"Sorry. Didn't mean to wake you."

 

She sat up, wiggling backwards to rest against the arm of the sofa. "You didn't," she smiled, slightly bashful. "Not unless you've turned into a telephone."

 

He breaks into a grin. "Uh, yeah. No." He shakes his head. "Can't claim that particular skill. Not yet."

 

"Yet, huh? So it's on your bucket list?" She grins back at him, still warm and soft with sleep and she's stretching suddenly. The stretch is expansive, lasts longer than he expects and reveals more than she means to, if her pink cheeks and the strip of skin exposed at her waist is anything to go by. And that's when he's hit with a huge dose of reality. He can't move forward with Meredith if he don't tell her about Addison. And he does wants to move forward, that is. He thinks so. It's what's right, for them and for him.

 

He doesn't want to keep lying.

 

"There's something important I need to tell you, Meredith..."

 

It's only time that he does.

 

* * *

She's shivering under pitch blackness and underneath thick blankets - nose runny, toes frozen under socks, teeth chattering noisily - while Christopher snores lightly away without a care in the world. He definitely didn't get the Forbes-Montgomery curse of being light sleepers.

 

Derek would always tease her for sleeping with her eyes half open. In the literal sense of sleeping with eyes half open, not the metaphorical sense of being frazzled and paranoid all the time.

 

_Why is he even watching her sleep?_

 

He'd use to do that all the time - watch her sleep. Sometimes she'd wake to him tracing patterns on her back and other times to soft blue waves that said, _I love you_. And once she's fully awake, she'd say she found it creepy and weird, but really, she secretly - or perhaps not so secretly, because she knows that he knows she just loves it too.

 

She loves the attention.

 

He even took a picture one night to prove exactly that - it's just typical arrogant Derek, proving he's right and she's so wrong.

 

Of course, she didn't want to believe that even while she's asleep, she still manages to look stupid. He said it was one of her adorable quirks, but isn't that a sleep disorder? If she recalls correctly. Anyway, she never stuck around long enough to have it checked out.

 

_Always be weary of your surroundings at all times. You never know what's going to hit you._

 

It was an eye roller then, but that's probably the best advice her mother could have given, and that's definitely the one advice she shouldn't have taken in so lightly.

 

But really, it sounded so stupid back then.

 

_Why should she need to be weary all the time?_

 

Bizzy can be so annoyingly wise and insightful at times.

 

It's just that it's too awfully cold tonight for her brain to switch off and drift off to sleep.

 

_Isn't it April already? Why the heck does it feel like Alaska in here?_

 

It must be just her because Christopher is as warm as the sun.

 

She placed a kiss on top of his head.

 

A _click_ and it's buzzing suddenly; something changed after she blinked. And she quickly jerked to cover her eyes with her arms as a bright light assaulted her overly sensitive pupils.

 

_Is this what going into the light feels like?_

 

_Is she in heaven?_

 

_Why? Has God forgiven her for all her sins?_

 

_Is she dead?_

 

She mustn't be because Christopher is still warm beside her.

 

Blinking to slowly get accustom to her surprise, she can finally see the colour of her son's long hair again. _Dark brown_. And she can actually see the tragic furnitures laying innocently around this dump. And the single light bulb that's hanging on the ceiling. And she can also hear the rustling coming from behind the metal door - _yes, it's that quiet_ \- followed by a sound that she can't ever forget even if she give up her life trying to.

 

That sound.

 

Blaring and brittle all at once. But it's so very unbearably loud to her. Almost like it's an announcement on a bullhorn.

 

It's a sound that stills her to her core, that causes her pupils to dilate wide with fear, that curdles deep in the pit of her stomach, that seizes her breath, and she swear up and down that her heart had just skipped a beat. Or maybe even two or three.

 

It's a sound - no, it's two distinctive sounds she dreads the most.

 

_Beep beep..._

 

One is definitely different from the other. At least to her it is. High then low. Or low then high. She can't tell anymore.

 

_Beep beep..._

 

It may sound innocent and harmless, but actually, it isn't. It's like iron nails dragging over a bed of rocks.

 

It may sound like it wouldn't scare someone half to death, but it definitely can. It's a ghost. Only worse because ghosts aren't even real.

 

_Beep beep..._

 

She had heard it. _Right?_ It's not just a fragment of her fucking imagination anymore. _Right?_ _She's not dreaming, is she?_ It's not just because of her pounding headache. _Right?_

 

She thinks she had heard it.

 

That darn sound.

 

She knows she heard it actually. And she has to hurry. It's signalling her to be quick on her feet and carry Christopher into the cupboard. Because it's only a matter of seconds. Not minutes. _Seconds_. Five, at most.

 

And that's exactly what she did.

 

Taking two leaps towards the cupboard with a heavily sleeping Christopher in her arms. Then, somehow, by whatever means of magic there is, she managed to open the cupboard doors with her damp and quivering hand. And placed him gently and quickly into confinement with still a second to spare and she took a deep calming breath.

 

A slow release of exhale because she shouldn't be scared.

 

She'll be fine. She has to trick her brain into thinking that.

 

She has to believe she'll be just that, fine, or else she'll never be.

 

_You'll be okay, Addison. You can face him. You wanted him to come back. Your wish came true._

 

But just not the one wish she truly and absolutely wants.

 

_He's_ here. And it's not just a mirage of hope. Because she just heard the metal door open with a teasing swish. Because she can smell _it_ \- the grass and dirt.

 

_No!_

 

No, she can taste the dirt on the tip of her tongue. It's earthy. She's craving it. _Dirt_. And that thought is making her stomach queasy but she doesn't care.

 

If only she could grab Christopher right now and push past _him_ , ambush _him_... _No! It's too dangerous._

 

She can't do it. She can't ever risk Christopher's life like that.

 

It's the outside and she'll take all the opportunity she can get for a whiff. She'll inhale and will never want to exhale ever again. But that's not possible, she's only human.

 

It's the outside. It's the same. It's familiar. _God! That an understatement_. It's as she remembers.

 

It hasn't changed at all. Not one bit. She doesn't know why but she really thought it would.

 

_How?_

 

She's not sure. It's not logical. It's not even possible. But then again, nothing made sense to her anymore.

 

But it's okay because this is a confirmation that the outside is waiting for her. _Yeah, it misses her too._ And the cold wind slashing through her marrows for just that tiny fraction of a second is basically a sign.

 

_They're going to get out of here soon._

 

Standing a few steps from the door is her captor whose entire existence would always riddle her with anxiety, but not today. Yea, not today, because the expression she's wearing is one of relief. And maybe even gratitude and joy.

 

She's happy to see _him_.

 

Because it's been eleven days. Eleven days of uncertainty, of not knowing if _he's_ even ever going to come back. Eleven days of hoping with no clear grounds for hope. It's been eleven days and it's the longest she haven't seen _him_ in all the years she've been stuck in here.

 

She's just so grateful that _he_ hasn't forgotten about them and just then, her frown turned right-side up. She's smiling.

 

But it's eleven days without _him_ , she ought to be relieved. _Right?_ It's eleven days of solace. _Nope_. Not at all. If anything, _his_ absence brought her far more frustration and anxiety because all she could think of were the _what_ _ifs_.

 

_What if he doesn't come back at all?_

 

_What if they starve to death?_

 

_What if she dies first?_

 

She needs _him_. She's the last person who should admit to that, but it's the truth. _Really_. They can't live without _him_.

 

_Who's going to bring them food and all the things they need?_

 

_He's_ back. She's happy. She hates _him_. She won't be stubborn. She'll just apologise. She'll do whatever _he_ wants. She'll be compliant. She won't provoke _him_. She can feed Christopher again. She'll do anything to keep that a constant.

 

"I'm sorry." Addison whispered, slowly putting one bare foot in front of the other. "I'm so so sorry." she nodded, convincing herself that she really truly is, and curled her fingers to a fist to keep them from visibly shaking.

 

_He's_ watching her, observing her like a hawk. Brows lined straight in a question. Not arched because _he_ can't do that. _He's_ standing just a foot away, barely even, with two brown paper bags in either arms and it's making her smile wider and eyes water simultaneously.

 

She had really convinced herself that they were going to starve to death. Starvation; it's not a pleasant feeling. She knows it, experienced it. She didn't like the feeling. It's been six years since. And it's not like riding a bike. It never gets easier and it's always forgetten.

 

They can't live without _him_. _No_. She can. It's all for Christopher. _Always_. And as a mother, she has to make sacrifices, no matter how unruly and recusant she feels about them.

 

"I'm so really sorry. Okay? I'm so thankful for you. We're here. We're alive and safe...And it's all because of you. You shelter us, provide for us. And...we need. I need you, okay?"

 

She hopes he'll fall for her act.

 

She has to be a natural at this; she's in her element after all. _Lying_. _Acting_. Lying is acting. Both elements overlapping somewhere in the middle.

 

_Manipulating. Deceiving. Bluffing._

 

"Please, please forgive me..." she choked, and the words tastes bitter on her tongue.

 

She wavered all second thoughts and brought her hand up to caress _his_ cheek. She has to be convincing because _he_ still looks borderline reluctant to believe her. And so, she gently moved her fingers around the back of _his_ neck and to the healing purple from where she had strike _him_ the other day.

 

"Sorry." she rub the area on _his_ jaw lightly with her thumb. It's just like performing a physical at the hospital. Gentle and practiced fingers, nice and slow movements.

 

And when that didn't work, she kissed a trail upwards on _his_ jawline. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to." she said softly, desperately grabbing _his_ face with both of her hands to make _him_ believe her.

 

"Forgive me?"

 

There it is.

 

The slightest flicker in _his_ green eyes and it's just what she needed. _He_ nodded.

 

_Okay. That was easy._

 

Dropping the bags to the ground, _he_ moved to grip her neck with both of _his_ hands and she can't exactly resist the gasp and flinch that has now become second nature to her.

 

She shut her eyes and whimpered a little when _his_ cold as ice hands skimmed the marks on her neck and cheek.

 

_He's_ not particularly rough today. Just alright.

 

It's a caress. It's gentle. It's nice. It's warm and welcoming. And she can't help but devour this change.

 

_He's_ soft for once. Gone are _his_ manhandling ruggedness and _he's_ treating her like an actual human being. She feels like one again. She's not an object that _he_ owns anymore.

 

"Look what _you_ made me do."

 

And, of course, it's her fault.

 

That the closest to an apology she'll ever get from _him_ and she'll settle for that. She's not going to ask _him_ to say the words, _l'm sorry._

 

She would if it wasn't _him_.

 

But today, _his_ tone is calm, friendly even, and _his_ hands are exactly that too. And she willed herself to power through and obey because she knows herself so well; she never makes things easy for herself. So, all she has to do is follow along and not open her mouth to anything destructive.

 

_He's_ good to her right now and she intends to stay on _his_ good side for how ever long possible. Because she's tired of punches and slaps and shoves and just basically a human punching bag. She doesn't want any of that anymore.

 

Their faces are just too close together now, so close that she can literally count _his_ freckles and see _his_ every exhale. They tastes like beer and cigarettes.

 

Their intimacy is making her uncomfortable and nauseous altogether, she wants to resign herself from _his_ grip but that's much easier said than done.

 

"It's okay." she gave _him_ a reassuring smile, "It was my fault anyway." And with that she took half a step back and attempted to pull herself away from _his_ hands because she knows if she doesn't soon, _he's_ going to do _it_ and she's going to have to scrub herself raw again.

 

But she's too lately or perhaps too slow since _he's_ looking at her with hollow eyes too familiar and _he's_ burning with passion and lust and something that looked to be the tiniest tinge of sorrow but before she could even analyse or think too much about that, _he_ took her face in _his_ hands too roughly, and clamped their mouths together with ample force.

 

She wants to cry because she doesn't want this, but it's not like she has any other choice. She has to endure this and let _him_ finish and respond to make this end quicker. She learned that a long time ago. So, she pretended like she does want this and pressed her lips harder against _his_ with a moan that's leaving her hot with embarrassment.

 

_He_ wants her. She has to reciprocate.

 

It's just sex. It's not a big deal.

 

And before she can so much as put her arms around _him_ , _he's_ backing her onto the 'kitchen' table. Hard and knocking wind right out of her lungs when her back slammed onto the hard surface. That's going to leave a nasty bruise and amongst others places too.

 

Her hands are reaching for support, grabbing and clawing for traction anywhere on the smooth plane, but she can't hold onto anything because she's desperate to get a breath in since _he's_ crushed against her ribcage and for the thousandth time in her life she feels trapped.

 

_NO!_

 

She can't scream it, so she's screaming as loud as she can in her head and it actually helps. It actually makes this much more bearable.

 

_He's_ kissing her neck, moving far too quickly and roughly downwards for anything to be considered gentle now - sucking and biting - no, it's like he's gnawing on the translucent skin of her collarbones and she's biting her lip to contain her sharp cries.

 

Just when she thought she's being treated like a human again, she not. She keeps forgetting that she's not one anymore. She's an object, an animal and essentially, deemed worthless.

 

_He_ misses her, and she has to gag on the bile that's threatening to spill before she can say that she does too.

 

A thought came to mind and she wondered if _he_ ever feels remorseful for what _he's_ done to her and even contemplated on asking _him_ that but thought otherwise because it's much safer to keep her mouth shut.

 

So, she bit down her questions on _his_ tongue and dragged her teeth along as she pulled away from the kiss.

 

Derek liked it when she did that to him.

 

So, she snuck her cold and trembling hands up his shirt, over the taunt muscles on _his_ abdomen.

 

Derek liked that too.

 

So, when she moved downwards to tease the waistband of _his_ jeans, she was assaulted with even more recollections.

 

_He_ groaned, pushing _his_ hips forward, telling her to venture further south and she dragged a single fingertip along the edge of _his_ pants, dipping just underneath the waistband and when _his_ breathing grew ragged, she let her hand drop down below and all the way down.

 

_He_ cursed, swore, spat derogatory towards her. She accepted all those terms because they cannot be more true.

 

She's all that.

 

She can do this again.

 

It's just sex.

 

It's not like she was ever a virgin when this all started, so it doesn't really matter anyway. It wouldn't ever matter.

 

* * *

When I wake, the air is not all icy anymore and I can't see my breathing which can only mean that the power is now uncut. It's all warm and cozy now. Like before. Everything is back to normal. Or maybe Ma woke up with superpowers and she made the power come back.

 

So, I get up, excited to see if Ma has superpowers - I hope she's Flash, so she won't be so slow anymore - but no, it's the same Ma. _My Ma._ She's sitting on couch, just staring at TV. I look, there's nothing on. It's all black and I can see my reflection and I wonder why she likes to watch that better. There's lots to watch on TV but she always prefers the quiet. When the power was cut, we did that a lot - the quiet and it was so boring. My eyes feels so heavy so quickly and I fall asleep all the time. I don't know why just don't turn TV on; it's much more funnier. You can laugh and smile and even cry. Once there was a movie on TV and it was about a dog who kept waiting and waiting in the train station for his master to return from work, but he never. It was so sad because dog and master both died, and Ma was so sad too.

 

I should ask Ma if I can watch TV all day long because I've missed so many days and can't catch up if I don't. I miss my friends. Room was so lonely without them.

 

"Good morning, lamp." I say softly and pat her on her back very gently. She's fragile, Ma says to be very careful with her - we won't get a new one.

 

On the table is a new box of cereal and a bundle bananas. _Yippee!_ _He_ must have come back yesterday in the night when I was sleeping. I didn't hear _him_ at all and even Ma. They must be so quiet. No talking at all and only going straight to bed, just like me.

 

Ma is still staring at TV when I jump out of bed. And that's when I see that there's pasta too and sausages and oranges. But Ma is not eating any of it.

 

I think she's still sick.

 

She's always feeling like she wants to vomit and she puts her palms to her head. I tell her to take the painkillers to feel much better; she says she can't anymore.

 

I don't ask why but I want to know.

 

On my tippy toes, I go closer to Ma, slowly, so I can _boo_ her. But then, I see she's not staring at TV, she's actually staring at Marina the Plant.

 

Marina the Plant was so beautiful before when she still had her flowers. They were colourful like all the colours in the rainbow and I water her every morning because that's her food.

 

Sometimes I forget, mostly I don't.

 

I think _he_ gave it to Ma.

 

There's only three leaves on the stem. "No!" I shout when Ma touches Marina the Plant.

 

Ma kind of jumped and turned around, "She was already dead."

 

"You killed her." I cry when Marina the Plant just break apart into pieces.

 

Ma shakes her head. "Alive things bend, Christopher. I think it was the cold. It made her go all frozen inside."

 

I'm not listening to Ma because I'm trying to fit her stem back together. It's all in pieces and Ma is trying to explain to me. _No!_ I don't want to listen. She needs some tape.

 

But then I remember we don't have any left. Ma put the last bit on the Alice in Wonderland book. _Stupid Ma!_ I run over and pull book out from shelf. I find the broken page and rip the bits of tape off.

 

Ma just watches me.

 

I'm pressing the tape on Marina the Plant but it just slips off and she's back to being all in pieces.

 

"I'm so sorry." Ma tells me.

 

"Make her be alive again."

 

She's a doctor. I remember Ma telling me that. Doctors make people alive again and fix things and not sick anymore.

 

_Is there a doctor for plants?_

 

"I would, if I could, Christopher. I'm sorry."

 

There's tears in my eyes and it's making everything blurry that I can't see. I want to ask Ma why not but I'm crying too much to even say anything.

 

_Why can't she fix Marina?_

 

Ma waits till I stop my crying, then she gently wipes my face with her sleeve. "All living things are born to die. Even us. That's just how life is."

 

I know she's wrong.

 

But I don't respond anything to Ma because her face is all flat and her eyes are so dark. So not like Ma. I think maybe _he_ hurt Ma again that's why she's talking all weird things, but I don't see any new marks.

 

"I guess we better put her in the trash."

 

"No." I shake my head and ask if we can flush her down the toilet.

 

"That would block the pipes." Ma said she doesn't want another flooding like last year. It was really disgusting, and the water and all the _ew_ was high up to my legs. I don't want one another flooding too.

 

"We can break her up in tiny pieces."

 

I kiss each leaf goodbye before flushing them. Then, I break apart the stem from the roots and whisper, "Goodbye, Marina the Plant."

 

Maybe in the sea she'll stick all back together again. And grow up bigger and beautiful with more colourful flowers.

 

The sea is real and the water in sea and ocean and rivers don't float around in everywhere because of gravity.

 

It's all real for real in outside, everything in outside is real because I saw the airplane in the blue between the clouds the other day. Ma and me can't go out because we don't know the secret code. Only _he_ does.

 

We do codes sometimes but we can never get the right combination.

 

When I was a little boy, I thought like a little kid, but now I'm five, I know everything.

 

Ma said she was a little girl too. Before, in outside and she was with her Ma and Pa and brother, living in a big big house. I try my hardest to imagine Ma as a little girl, but it's so hard to because Ma can't be little. It's not possible.

 

_Did Ma look like me when she was five?_

 

_Did she have long hair too?_

 

_If Ma has a mother and a father, how come I only have a mother? Shouldn't I have a father too?_

 

We have a nice bath right after breakfast. And breakfast was eggs and toast. _Delicious! My favourite!_ And also, Ma was eating, so that's a very good news.

 

The water is all warm and steamy. _Yum!_ We fill bath so high that it almost makes a flood. Ma lies back in tub and goes nearly to sleep so many times. She always gets bored so fast we take baths. Many times she fall asleep so deep that I can't even wake her. But today I wake her quickly to wash my hair so she won't be bored and I do hers too.

 

We do laundry too because we don't like to waste. But then there's long hairs on the sheets so we have to pick them off one by one. We have a race to see who gets more out quicker.

 

The cartoons are over already once we're done cleaning up room. I want to see my friends, maybe tomorrow then. The real human children are colouring eggs for the Easter bunny. I look at each different kid and I'm so amazed because they all look so different from Ma and me.

 

I have to remember that they are all real for real.

 

_You're all real. Just like Ma and me._

 

"Archer and I used to...When we were kids. Umm, the Easter bunny brought chocolate eggs at the night and hid them all around our garden, under bushes and in holes in the trees, even in the fountain."

 

_My has a fountain in her home in outside!_

 

I look at Ma and she is smiling. So, Easter bunny is really real too. I don't think the Easter bunny knows where room is, anyway we don't have a bushes and trees, they're all in outside.

 

Today is a pretty happy day because of the warm air and all the food and the uncut power, but Ma's not happy.

 

I think she miss plant more than me.

 

Ma gets tired of just sitting and watching TV, so she turns TV off and said, "Let's get active." I suggest PE and we pretend we're hiking on the mountain trail. We walk hand-in-hand and call out what we can see.

 

"Look, Ma, a waterfall!"

 

After a minute, I say, "A bear!"

 

"Wow!" Ma turn to where my finger was pointing and put her hand to her mouth in surprise.

 

"Your turn."

 

"Oh, look," says Ma," A ladybird."

 

We have to crouch down to actually see it because she's so tiny. I even squint to see. "Look a giant bulldozer knocking down skyscraper."

 

"Look," she says, "a pod of pelicans."

 

"A ghost!" I scream.

 

"Christopher!" That makes her smile for only a second. It's better than never ever.

 

Then we march faster and sing songs.

 

Once we're all tired, we play _Don't Move_. Ma is really good at that. It's a very simple game, all we have to do is lie down real still.

 

_Easy right?_

 

But I always always lose. Today, I forgot that we're playing and scratch my nose. So, Ma wins.

 

"Ma, can we play _Simon says_?"

 

Ma shakes her head, not looking at me. "Sorry. I'm going back to bed for a bit, okay."

 

I can still see her eyes though, they're shiny. So I don't argue.

 

She's not much fun today.

 

I make more towers with toilet paper rolls, it's not the same when making it with Ma. Maybe I can just show her but her eyes are closed. She must be sleeping. Maybe I can tell her to name them later because she named all the others.

 

I'll just wait.

 

I go to the wall where I scribbled something when I was just a little baby. We're not allowed to draw on any of the furnitures because _he_ will get very mad and Ma get scared whenever he does. So, I don't anymore. I touch the lines with my fingers and wonder what I was saying in my head when I did that.

 

I can't remember. Maybe I wasn't thinking any, I was only a baby.

 

Now whenever we're cleaning Ma taps the scribble and say, "Look, we have to live with that forever."

 

I stick my head out and Ma's eyes open. They're wide and huge like mine. We have the same eyes. "What are you doing?" I ask her.

 

"Just thinking."

 

_Just thinking_. I can think and do all the interesting stuff all at the same time. _Why can't she?_

 

She gets up and goes to kitchen. It's past twelve so I think she's making lunch. "Can you make chicken nuggets, Ma?"

 

I don't think she heard me because I see her opening a box of macaroni and cheese.

 

It's okay. I like it too. But today, Ma doesn't because the smell is making her wanting to vomit. Just eating a banana for Ma.

 

I talk and talk to her but she doesn't seem to want to talk back. She just nod and smile and say, "That's sounds great, Christopher." Even though it doesn't. She's not really listening actually.

 

When I'm done eating, Ma washes up dishes real slow. I wait for her to be finished so she can play with me but she doesn't want to play, she sits in chair with her elbows on table, and rest her face in her palms.

 

"What are you doing?"

 

"Still thinking." After a minute she looks back at me and asks, "What's in the pillowcase?

 

"It's my backpack."

 

She just looks, not saying a word.

 

"I've tied two corners of it around my neck. It's for going in outside when we get rescued."

 

I've put in our toothbrushes, truck and remote and an underwear for me and one for Ma and socks and a t-shirt for us and four apples for if we get hungry.

 

"Is there water?"

 

Ma nods, "Oceans, rivers, lakes..."

 

"No. But for drinking. Is there faucets?"

 

"I guess so."

 

I'm glad I don't have to bring a bottle of water because my backpack is pretty heavy now. I have to hold the ends at my neck so it doesn't squish me when talking.

 

Ma is rubbing her palms all over her face. "I used to dream about being rescued." she says softly, "I wrote notes and hid them in the trash bag. But nobody ever found them."

 

"You should have sent them down toilet."

 

Ma is so silly sometimes.

 

"And when we scream nobody can hear us." oh, this doesn't sound like Ma yesterday. She sounds like she's so far away and that can only mean she's sad again. "I was flashing the flashlight half the night and then thought...why? Why am I even wasting my time? I thought, 'nobody is even looking. They all sleeping too.'."

 

"But-"

 

"Nobody is going to rescue us, Christopher."

 

I don't say anything for a while and so does Ma. I'm just breathing heavy. "You don't know everything there is."

 

Her face is the strangest I ever see. It's like she has no face at all. I'd rather she was gone for the day then not like Ma at all.

 

I get all my books and start reading read Jack and the Beanstalk. I'm so lost in the story that I didn't even realise Ma was sitting on ground with me now.

 

"Christopher, listen. Are you listening?" she swallows hard and plays with my hair.

 

I climb onto Ma's lap, "I'm always listening."

 

"We have to get out of here."

 

I stare at her and looking around room. _Here? Get out of room?_

 

Ma's face changes. She smiles, but not really a happy one. "No more being scared, okay? And we have to do it all by ourselves. We have to rescue us."

 

But she said we are like the people in a book. Stuck. _How do people in a book escape from it?_

 

"We need to figure out a plan."

 

Her voice is all high and I exchange a look with Ma. She's scared. But she said not to be. I don't understand.

 

"Like what?"

 

"I don't know, do I?" Ma laughs, "I've been trying to find one for seven years."

 

"We could smash down the walls. But we don't have a bulldozer...We could...blow up door." I think.

 

That would be super cool to see. It's real for real because I see it done in TV all the time. We can do it too.

 

"With what?"

 

"The cat did it on Tom and Jerry."

 

"It's great that you're brainstorming." Ma giggles and kiss my head, "But we need a plan that'll actually work."

 

"A really really big explosion then."

 

"If it's really big then it'll blow us up too."

 

I hadn't thought of that. I do another brainstorming, thinking really _really_ hard. "Oh, Ma, we could wait till he comes back to room one night and we could say, _'oh look at this yummy cake we made for you. Have a big slice of our cake.'_ And actually it'll be poison."

 

Ma shakes her head, "Okay. But that still doesn't get the door open."

 

I think so hard it hurts.

 

"Any other ideas?" Ma looks down at her hands, then at me.

 

"You said no to all of them."

 

"I'm sorry. Sorry. Your ideas were wonderful." she says warmly, smiling a little bit.

 

"What about you?"

 

"I don't know...I..." she licks her lips. "I keep thinking about the moment the door opens...if we timed it exactly right for that split second when...we could...rush past him?"

 

"Oh, yea!" I jump around, "That's a cool idea."

 

"If you could slip out while I go for his eyes...No-" Ma closes her eyes and shakes her head. "No way. That's too dangerous."

 

"Yes way."

 

"He'll grab you, Christopher. He'll grab you before you go halfway up the yard and-"

 

She stops talking.

 

"We could trick him." I tell her.

 

"Like what?" she breathes out heavily like she's tired.

 

"Like maybe like when he tricked you to think that he was hurt and you helped him and he put you in his truck."

 

Ma lets out her breath and rolls her eyes, "I know you're trying to help but maybe you could hush for a while now, so I can do the thinking."

 

But we were thinking and thinking so good. We were thinking hard together. Brainstorming. It was so much fun.

 

I get up and go to refrigerator to get some juice.

 

"Christopher!" Ma shouts so loud that she scared me and I drop the jug in my hand, spilling all the juice onto the floor. Her eyes are all huge and she's talking extra extra fast. "What you said was actually a brilliant idea!...What if we pretend you're sick?"


End file.
